


A City of Broken Stone

by hoodedmage



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, Battle, Civil War, F/M, Forsworn, M/M, Magic, Markarth (Elder Scrolls), Politics, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 73,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23244808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoodedmage/pseuds/hoodedmage
Summary: The Forsworn terrorise the Reach. Backstabbing and intrigue threaten to break the court of Markarth. Ancient secrets below the city are disturbed, and now the Imperials want to hand Markarth over to the Stormcloaks? Over Jarl Igmund's dead body.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	1. One

"I hate Bretons," murmured Calcelmo as the glittering procession passed through the halls of Understone Keep. "These insufferable fools, that ghastly man who runs the kitchen and the barbarians in the hills."

"I'm not sure if they truly count as Bretons, Uncle," said Aicantar with a small smirk. He watched with arms folded as scholars and soldiers trundled passed, followed by workers in rags pulling carts of tools and provisions. "The men and women of The Reach seem to have an identity all of their own."

"A debatable but astute point," replied Calcelmo. The old Elf's eyes darkened as he recognised someone in the crowd. "Very well, I hate _these_ Bretons. There, do you see him? The one with the greasy moustache? _That's_ the one who started all of this."

"Staubin?"

"Yes, that's his name. Disgusting fellow and more stubborn than those not-Bretons who infest the hills. To think Jarl Igmund gave him permission to tear apart Nchuand-Zel. I told him, I told _them_ that it's a fool's errand and they'll all end up killed, and my work will be ruined."

"They didn't care, did they, Uncle?"

"No they didn't. As brave as they are, they're stupid and stubborn and-"

"And this is the fourth time today I've heard you complain about it," said Aicantar with a laugh, flashing his teeth at his frowning Uncle Calcelmo. The procession of excavators had passed them by, and Aicantar started to follow them down the dark grey, rubble-strewn tunnels of Markarth. A great cavern met them on the far side. Brown earth was cut with great stone slabs, and grey rock created a vaulted ceiling. Tables and carts littered the room, both spilling over with the intricate bronze machinations of the Dwemer. Glowing enchanters and yellowed spell tomes filled Calcelmo's sacred corner of study, and the old Elf starred down anyone who ventured too close.

The procession marched unfalteringly through the cavern where they met the banks of a roaring river which glittered and shimmered in the hazy blue light of the cavern. A stone bridge led them to their destination – an imposing bronze door, intricately decorated with the jagged designs of the ancient Dwemer. It reached entirely to the ceiling, and it was only here that the march ended.

"It seems the whole court has come to watch this insult," said Calcelmo. He pointed to a hollow stone tower capped in bronze. There stood delegations from the many factions that made up the heart of Markarth. In shining metal armour stood Legate Emmanuel Admand, Captain of the Imperial Legion in The Reach. "I don't think the Legate ever smiles," said Calcelmo, not taking his eyes off the tower.

"I don't think you do either, Uncle," said Aicantar in a flash. "Another Breton you hate?"

"A Breton I can tolerate as a matter of fact, as much as anyone can tolerate a shiny tin can with no thought other than Imperial doctrine."

"Don't tell me you hate Imperials too now."

"Not at all, but I expect the best and brightest amongst the Legion to have original thought."

"It doesn't help that he personally supplied half the Imperial soldiers joining this expedition," said Aicantar. As tired as he was of his uncle's constant whining, he did enjoy stirring the pot slightly.

"I can almost forgive him for handing over the soldiers. The orders came from Jarl Igmund, and even if he wanted to refuse he couldn't. A Legate is nothing to a Jarl."

Staubin took his place as the head of the procession. His black moustache tickled the collar of his simple robes. Basic blue design with a yellow hem adorned all researches in the expedition. Staubin stood out only by a gold brooch of a tower on his breast. There was silence amongst those gathered as he ceremoniously pulled out a chunky bronze key from his robes and slotted it into the keyhole of the Dwemer door of the same design. The clang of metal vibrated through the room, and a high shriek filled the air as the door was dragged open. Without a glance back, he and his expedition of researchers, soldiers and workers disappeared into dust and darkness.

As the great bronze doors slammed shut, Calcelmo sighed and floated back towards the Keep with Aicantar at his heels. Those gathered to watch the expedition quickly began to disperse. People filtered down stone walkways from the towers and skirted around inanimate metal monsters.

"Uncle, we may never see those men again," said Aicantar with a frown.

"We may not, but they knew that before they ever stepped foot in Markarth," said Calcelmo.

"I spoke to one of them yesterday. He was old and grey, and he told me that he'd survived countless such expeditions. He told me the trick to getting out alive."

"Sacrifice everyone and anyone. It's almost doctrine in certain academic circles," said Calcelmo without missing a beat.

"It's vile."

"It's work. I can't stand it myself if simply for the lack of logic. If one can't survive a situation with an armed guard, one isn't going to survive by themselves. Keep as many people alive and fit, and the expedition should be a success," said Calcelmo with a stern, lecture-like voice. "I've met countless academics willing to sacrifice anything for a trinket. I've seen first-hand what those kind of men and women do. It's the workers that go first – the miners and labourers. If food runs low, then they starve. If they're injured, then they're left to die. No use wasting valuable potions or magic on someone barely human."

"Uncle!" said Aicantar, grabbing his uncle by the arm and stopping him in his tracks.

"It's not my opinion, my boy. It is simple observation. Argonians, Khajiit, Dunmer. They go first. Not the strongest, not the fastest, never the most useful in the eyes of blind fools."

"Uncle, did you never challenge these-"

"It's the Orcs that academics prize. Strong, loyal, tough. They can survive for days on bloodlust alone, and the right Orc is worth ten good men."

"Those skinny fools won't be nabbing themselves this Orc," said a new voice.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that unpleasantness, Moth," said Aicantar with a slight bow.

The Orc, Moth gro-Bagol, held up a meaty green hand in forgiveness. His tusked face was black with soot and his arms bulged with muscle. "Your Uncle's right. Many good Orcs leave their strongholds to work for weak men."

"You left your stronghold to work for the Empire. I see little difference," said Aicantar. There was a pause while Moth towered over him, his tusks turning into a frown. Aicantar raised his entire slight frame to meet him. The showdown only lasted a few seconds before they both cracked a smile and Moth slapped Aicantar hard on the back.

"Those days are well behind me, and I distinctly remember you preaching your support for the Empire."

"I had no choice. It's not like the Stormcloaks will welcome an Altmer with open arms."

"Or you could not meddle in war or politics, two things you have no business with," Moth said sternly but kindly.

"Leave the boy alone, Moth," said Calcelmo with a gentle hand. "He's young and wants to know the world still. Moth is right, however, do not distract yourself from research with silly notions of glorious war. We are Elves. We have no business involving ourselves in this war, nor are we welcome to do so."

"I have no wish to fight, Uncle, but I hear Stormcloaks are travelling from city to city ousting and murdering any Elf they find. I cannot help but be appalled."

"I would be careful, Aicantar. Jarl Igmund may sell himself to the Imperials, but the Stormcloaks do not lack friends in this city," said Calcelmo.

Their meandering had found them in the great hall of Understone Keep. Thick stone steps led upwards to levels of the keep with doors and passages leading to more doors and passages in the labyrinth. Brass statues of Dwemer automatons rested on plinths and platforms, frozen in time. Metal skeletons brandishing swords and crossbows rose from spheres and hulking giants of imitated muscle crashed hammers into the stone. It was grand, if not dark and intimidating.

Giant burners protruded from the ground and hung from the ceiling, lighting the room with an orange glow that glittered off every surface. A thick haze of smoke added mystery to the grand design.

Through the haze, shapes of people could be seen, from lowly kitchen girls carrying laundry to glittering Imperial soldiers dressed in steel that shone like silver. The rich and noble minced across the stone with furs and gowns flapping. The keep was busy with echoes of a well-oiled autocracy.

Aicantar stared for a moment at the soldiers and the nobles and the commoners, thought briefly about his place somewhere on the outside of it all, and wondered idly about how many people in this hall longed for rebellion while bowing to the Jarl and dutifully paid their taxes.

"Factions within factions…" he whispered to himself.

"Moth gro-Bagol?" asked a timid servant boy as he skittered towards the trio. "Calcelmo?"

" _Court Wizard_ Calcelmo, but yes you have the pleasure," said Calcelmo looking down at the boy. A Breton.

"Jarl Igmund requests to see you both in the war room. A matter of urgency," he said rather hurriedly.

"It's always a matter of urgency with Jarl Igmund. We misplace a bar of silver form the treasury and Markarth is under siege," said Moth with a huff.

"It is still not wise to ignore such summons," said Calcelmo. His eyes glanced to the highest level of the keep, behind which the haze hid the Mournful Throne and the war room. "Aicantar, do whatever it is you do when I'm busy," said Calcelmo as he drifted up the stairs. Both Aicantar and the servant gave graceful bows, glanced at each other and scattered.

* * *

Fresh air did not exist in Markarth. Aicantar left the smoke of Understone Keep to breath in the smog of industry. The city rose from the ground in tiers up a high mountain that dominated the area. Many buildings were carved straight into the mountain, and those that weren't were nestled in its cracks and overhangs. A sharp spire of rock dissected he city, upon which the imposing guards tower and radiant Temple of Dibella were held aloft. It was the south side of the spire that spewed the acrid smoke. Water mills, forges, smelters, refineries, factories. All pumped out black dirt into the city and rang with the cries of hammered metal. At the far end of the city, a great cave opened up into the mountain. Cidhna Mine. Grey dust and silver fell from its jaws. It was the source of most of the wealth in the city and acted as the most secure prison in Skyrim.

It was into the smoke that Aicantar strolled. He wandered under the shade of stone pillars and hanging gardens that formed the façade of Understone Keep. Two waterfalls roared their way over the metal statues of the long dead Dwemer that were hammered into the grey walls. They sprayed a cool mist on Aicantar as he passed under them and into the Industrial District. He headed towards the great waterworks in the centre of the district that straddled one of the three blue rivers that flowed through the city. Its wooden walkways housed the waterwheel that powered the entire district with its constant churning. In the centre of it all sat one of the greatest forges in all of Markarth, resting on a stone island in the roaring river. Aicantar smiled and dipped under a low-hanging beam to be greeted a hot blast from the forge.

"Aicantar, hand me the mallet," growled a throaty voice.

"Ghorza, it's about time you found yourself a new apprentice," said Aicantar, obediently handing over the mallet.

"In fact I have, but the boy is useless. It baffles me how the Imperials once had an Empire spanning Tamriel yet their 'best' apprentices can't forge a nail."

"He's learning from the best. If you can't teach him how to forge steel, then no one can."

"Don't let my brother hear that or he'll have a fit. How is Moth doing? I haven't seen him all day." Ghorza gra-Bagol hammered a sword blade into a simple iron hilt. Her leather apron was tied tightly round her thick waist, shaping her hips and breast. She wasn't as muscular as her brother, but Aicantar had seen her throw a punch and he vowed never to be on the receiving end.

"He's up in the Keep. My Uncle and I bumped into him after the researches delved into Nchuand-Zel."

"Those Bretons? A waste of time if you ask me, but they bought up half my stock on their way through. A Breton that's good for business is all I can ask for."

"Ghorza, I have the iron you asked for. Oh," said a voice behind them. "I'm sorry, I'll come back when you don't have company."

"Stay, Tacitus. An apprentice is always welcome at his forge. This is Aicantar, an Altmer and mage," said Ghorza gruffly.

Aicantar extended a hand to Tacitus who grasped for it eagerly, his calloused palms rubbing against Aicantar's soft hands. Aicantar glanced up at the dark face of the young Imperial. Blue eyes poked from under blonde hair and dirty skin.

"There's a little more to me than just my magic or my race, but it's a good enough introduction," said Aicantar with a soft smile that Tacitus returned with dimples.

"I'm afraid I'm pretty much how Ghorza describes me. Imperial apprentice, and a slow one at that," Tacitus said, his eyes drooping slightly. Aicantar felt a pang of sympathy.

"You're damn right, boy, but we can chat pleasantries when there isn't work to be done. Now, Aicantar, you came here for a reason?" Ghorza asked.

"Yes." He cast a glance at Tacitus and pulled a worn leather bag from his robes. He placed the bag on a wooden table strewn with weapons of all description. Lifting the flap, he slid out chunks of intricately detailed metal. Instantly, Ghorza rushed to the table and grabbed a twisted piece of brass metal that may once have been a lever.

"Dwarven…" she admired piece after piece. "You finally managed to make good on your promise. There's possibly two ingots here, maybe three."

"It's not easy smuggling anything out of the museum, but my uncle shouldn't notice these pieces missing. I always come through in the end," said Aicantar, smiling at her excitement over the scraps of metal.

Tacitus stood awkwardly at the side-line. He had met very few people in Markarth so far. Ghorza was tough but kind, and Aicantar seemed interesting. He'd never spoken to an Elf before, nor a smuggler of Dwarven goods. As Ghorza tucked the metal away with glee, Tacitus was staring at Aicantar. From what he could see under the hood, Aicantar had large blue eyes, fat lips, a cut jaw and pointed chin. Handsome, with a mischievous air. Markarth was going to be far more interesting than anywhere else he'd been.

"Aicantar, thank you. I shall call on you when I have made whatever it is I shall be making with this gift," Ghorza said, smoothing down her apron.

"I wait in eager anticipation," said Aicantar with a smile and bowed out of the forge.

"He seems nice," said Tacitus.

"A good soul which is rare in Markarth, but people don't trust Elves. People don't tend to trust Orcs either; it's how we became friends."

"I don't mind Elves nor Orcs."

"Then you could make a lot worse friends than him."

* * *

The war room was as grand as any other room in Understone Keep. A large stone table resplendent in copper joining filled the centre of the room. It was complete with a set of unwieldy and uncomfortable stone chairs, each occupied by stone-faced people.

Jarl Igmund stood at the head of the table, hands pressed on the stone surface, his eyes glued to a detailed map of The Reach. His hair was grey and military cropped, and his beard neat and trimmed. Brown furs hugged his neck and chin, and lavish green robes and jewels adorned his body. The twirling horns of a ram, the symbol of Markarth and The Reach, emblazoned his chest. He was dressed as a Jarl, but those in the room saw him as a warrior.

"Another attack," he said simply and gruffly. His voice was deep and weary but spat venom. "The Khajiit caravan was slaughtered on the road." He inked a spot just south of Markarth on the map.

"This is not good news, my Jarl, but nor is it urgent," said Legate Emmanuel Admand, the only man in the room rivalling Jarl Igmund for the intimidation factor. It seemed as if he never took off his thick steel armour. "The Khajiit were of no importance. All they brought was petty trade and skooma. Hopefully now that vile drug may disappear from the streets."

"It's more than that, Legate. The Khajiit are tough and durable. They pay the best coin for the best guards. All of which were slaughtered. If the Khajiit cannot make it to the city, then no one can. Anyone sent out of those gates are dead men. The entire Reach is all but lost to those Forsworn bastards." His emotions got the better of him and he slammed his fist on the table. An audible crack was heard, but Jarl Igmund did not flinch. Calcelmo did.

"I have no men to spare," said Legate Emmanuel simply and without emotion as the sound of Jarl Igmund's broken knuckle still echoed around the room.

"I know, Legate. It would take a whole Century to be safe in the countryside."

"My Jarl, if I may?" asked Calcelmo, steadily rising to his feet.

"Proceed," said Jarl Igmund, sinking into his chair, his red hand clutched in the other.

"How are the Forsworn able to do this? They are barbarous, pelt wearing, animal worshipping Bretons- "

"Watch it," cut in Legate Emmanuel sternly.

"With no central organisation. By all reports their camps and towers operate quite independently from one another. How are they able to defeat a respected mercenary band and our own soldiers?"

"It is because of those traits, not despite them, that the Forsworn are so strong. You destroy one base and there's a dozen more out there to be found. They know this land better than anyone, can strike in a heartbeat and then melt away." Jarl Igmund had stood up once more. "And they have magic."

"Hedge wizards at best, my Jarl. They have no true magical talent," replied Calcelmo.

"True, but no soldier can fight their best with fire raining down on them, no matter how simple the spell. Besides, it's not just their mages. We have increasingly more reports of something worse. Hagravens."

"Surely not," whispered Calcelmo.

"Indeed. Yes, we wiped out many of their nests during our last crusade, but they are back at the head of the Forsworn horde."

Thongvor Silver-blood stood up for the first time during the meeting. He was clad in dull steel, leather and fur. His bald head had started to wrinkle, and old scars had begun to deepen. Of all the nobility in The Reach, his clan was the most powerful. He and his brother owned all the silver in Markarth, half the property and half the guard. "Jarl Igmund, I personally led the raids on the Hagraven nests. I killed many of them myself and lost many, many good men to their foul claws and magic. We didn't leave a single one alive."

Jarl Igmund shook his head. He silently reached to the base of his chair and threw the mangled head of a Hagraven onto the stone table. Bloodied grey hair spewed from the crooked and wart-marked head of an old crone with a nose like a raven's beak. The stench was of death and must. "Found on the road with the dead Khajiit. Believe me when I say we left behind a body with wings and talons. They have returned."

"Then they must be stamped out," said Thongvor, staring at the head in disgust.

"Hagravens or not, I cannot lend the men," said Legate Emmanuel, his arms crossed.

"No, we have proven that these beasts cannot be eradicated. A lone Hagraven is little threat and can be ignored. A Hagraven at the head of a Forsworn army is the most dangerous enemy to us all. They bolster the forces with dark magic and breed with their most depraved," said Jarl Igmund. Once more he picked up his quill and slowly marked a spot on the map. It was an island in the middle of the mighty Karth River that flowed through the map as it did The Reach. "Karthspire. A sprawling camp on the river. Well defended and filling with more Forsworn soldiers every day. It is one of the few camps we have an eye on and appears to be one of the largest. This could be our biggest blow to the Forsworn in years."

Legate Emmanuel breathed in deeply. "A single Century is all I have stationed in this city. I will not send the men out to be slaughtered and leave the city undefended."

"This threat cannot be ignored, Legate," said Jarl Igmund sternly.

"And why not? Let the Forsworn stay. We do not have the power to wage a war against Ulfric _and_ the beasts. We are safe in Markarth, and it's a fool's errand to chase after the Forsworn."

"That's a very Imperial view, Legate. Hiding behind bigger men and bigger walls," said Thongvor Silver-blood with a smirk.

Legate Emmanuel slowly leaned on the table, pressing his bald and scarred face closer to that of Thongvor's. "That sounds very Stormcloak of you, Silver-blood. I don't know what I'd have to do if I found a Stormcloak supporter in Markarth."

"Hide in your bedroom and ignore them as if they were Forsworn, I suppose," said Thongvor without missing a beat. Legate Emmanuel had almost got Thongvor by the throat when Jarl Igmund smashed his glass on the table between them, coating the two men with wine and glass.

"Enough! That settles it. Thongvor, you and your men shall lead the attack on Karthspire."

"My Jarl-"

"Since you don't like hiding behind bigger men and bigger walls, and since it hasn't escaped my notice that the largest clan in The Reach hasn't sent any men to fight the Stormcloaks, you can put your soldiers to good use," he said.

"Jarl Igmund, as I've told you my men are busy guarding our mines and farms," said Thongvor, panicking.

"Either send your soldiers to Karthspire, or send them to the frontlines. That is final."

Before Thongvor Silver-blood could conjure up another reply, Jarl Igmund straightened himself and addressed the entire room. "The siege on Karthspire will begin in two days. The Silver-blood family has kindly offered to send their troops to fight the Forsworn. Will they go alone?"

This was the part of a war meeting that most people dreaded. At the high end of the table sat Jarl Igmund, Thongvor Silver-blood and Legate Emmanuel Admand. At the lower end of the table sat those with no title like Calcelmo and Moth gro-Bagol. In between was a sea of nobles, advisers, diplomats and merchants, both high and low. Those holding land and men were now invited to speak. None of them wanted to do so. Most had sent their men to fight the Stormcloaks. Those that still had soldiers were reluctant to release them. The table was uneasy.

"My Jarl, I don't know what you think we have to offer," said the first brave voice. Jarl Igmund turned to look at the man kindly. "My brothers, my sons, my workers, all have gone to fight the Stormcloaks. My mine is working on a skeleton force. I rely on the generosity of the City of Markarth as it is to defend my small land." The voice belonged to Lord Skaggi Scar-Face, a lesser noble in the court of Markarth. He owned a small village and iron mine just outside the city. His namesake cut deeply across his lips and up his cheek.

"Lord Skaggi, I know your sacrifices already. I do not expect you to give that which you do not have," said Jarl Igmund with a nod, inviting Skaggi to be at ease.

"And what about us?" asked a harsh, irritated old woman. Her grey hair was in a tight bun, and her thin frame supported a worn lilac dress that was fashionable three seasons ago. "You insult us, Jarl Igmund. The Forsworn killed my husband, killed my son. They burnt my land and took my home, and yet you do nothing? No, I rot away in this keep of yours for over a year, surviving on your pity, but that never extends far enough for you to take back my home. Instead, you set your sights on some sprawling camp. Is my home, my legacy worth nothing in the eyes of the Jarl of Markarth?"

"Lady Sungard, the attack on your home was a great tragedy for the whole Reach. We saw one of our most powerful families fall to barbarians, and with it one of our largest fortresses. That is why I am unable to help you yet. Here we are planning an attack on an open camp, a heavily defended one yes, but only with wooden stakes and men. To take back Fort Sungard would be an impossible task without the full armies of The Reach," said Jarl Igmund, trying to sound as sympathetic as possible.

"And the full armies of The Reach are busy fighting Ulfric Stormcloak, a worthy cause, but the wounds of the Forsworn attack still cut deep." Lady Sungard's eyes glistened with moisture. "I have no love for Ulfric or his Stormcloaks, but I cannot sympathise with a war hundreds of miles away when too many are ignoring the war here at home. I do not blame you, Jarl Igmund, for the loss of Fort Sungard. It was my family's own blindness that lost us our home, but there is yet more blindness in attacking a lone campsite when the Forsworn control some of the strongest forts in The Reach. You will have no help from me, my few guards left remain my own."

Jarl Igmund turned away from Lady Sungard. "Old Hroldan is near Karthspire, Lady Eydis, as is your mine, Lord Soljund. What experience do you have with these Forsworn?"

"Small raids as normal," said Eydis, a tough Nord woman. "In fact, the attacks seem to be easing off. I don't like it."

"I would have thought less Forsworn attacks would be welcome," said Thongvor.

"No, there are more Forsworn than ever. We can see the lights at night. The camp seems to grow larger every day and yet they leave us alone," said Lord Soljund, weary leather armour wrapping his young body. As one of the youngest nobles he had yet to garner respect amongst the others. "That means they're gathering their strength. They're planning something big. I can't speak for Old Hroldan, but my men are with you, as getting rid of these Forsworn from my doorstep would be very welcome."

"Aye, Old Hroldan stands with the Jarl and the Silver-bloods," said Lady Eydis. Neither she nor Lord Soljund had large armies, but Jarl Igmund was relieved to have some support.

"Thank you. Go, now, all of you. I must prepare for what is to come."

* * *

The halls of Nchuand-Zel were tall and dark. Pillars held aloft ceilings of unseen heights. Staubin winced at the clanging and shuffling of his team. They had no idea what to expect in the submerged Dwemer palace, but it would be wise to be more cautious. Relics of past excavations could be seen at the edges of the torchlight, including heaps of metal and dusty skeletons. Stone steps led upwards to solid rock walls on either side of the main chamber, and thus Staubin was at least satisfied that they were going the right way, if the only way. Talk was short and to the point along the tunnel as the ominous darkness and depth of the chamber hushed everyone. Scholars skittered across the stone floor to examine this and that worthless artefact or carving. Staubin knew that anything this early on in Nchuand-Zel was the scrap others had left behind. He retained his place dutifully at the head of the excavation, with the dozen Imperial guards surrounding the rest.

It wasn't long before torchlight shone on the end of the chamber. A solid granite wall loomed above them, blocking what once may have been a throne room. For a moment Staubin considered ordering the workers to dig through but decided it was a waste of labour. There had to be something they weren't seeing.

"Captain Alethius," called Staubin, summoning his captain of the guard. He hated how his voice boomed and echoed round the chamber. "Send your men out. We must have passed a side chamber along the way. Tell them to report to me when they've found something."

"Yes sir," said Alethius, dutifully stamping his armoured foot on the ground. The sound made those not paying attention to the conversation wince.

Perhaps an hour had passed before a young soldier ran up to Staubin. His blonde hair was matted with sweat. "Wizard Staubin, sir, we may have found the way forward. One of the staircases leads to a narrow passage, but I could glimpse a larger hall at the end of it."

"Very good, soldier," said Staubin with a relieved sigh.

"Sir, another thing. There were spider webs," said the soldier a little nervously.

"So? I don't care if you're afraid of spiders, boy."

"I don't think your understand, sir-"

"You dare question the intelligence and reasoning of one of the Synod's foremost researchers? There are spider webs, and thus there are spiders. I understand perfectly well soldier, and despite the looming fear of creepy crawlies we shall venture forth regardless. Am I clear?" Staubin was starting to become disillusioned with the might of the Imperial Legion.

"Yes, sir," said the soldier, yet doubt and fear still clung to him.

The research team shuffled their way to the narrow opening in the rock. It appeared natural, unlike the grand architecture of the city. White webbing clung to the walls and spilled out of the tunnel like foam from a monster's mouth. There was silence as Staubin and Alethius stood at the head of the pack, just under the shadow of the tunnel.

"We don't know what's beyond, sir," said Alethius, raising his torch to shine more light into the darkness. The orange flame glittered off the sticky webbing.

"We don't know what to expect in any part of this city, captain, that's why we're here," said Staubin angrily.

"Do you see that in the darkness?" asked Alethius suddenly. At the far reaches of his torchlight glittered green gems, hundreds of them. They waved and danced, flashed yellow then back to green, disappeared and reappeared somewhere else. It looked like the twinkling of gentle stars.

"Perhaps valuables of the Dwemer," exclaimed Staubin excitedly, taking a step forward. Alethius grabbed him by the arm and pulled him backwards. Still holding on to Staubin, he slowly bent down and picked up a piece of scrap metal. In a deft movement he tossed it into the tunnel, and a dull clang echoed back. The lights vanished.

"I don't understand," said Staubin with a furrowed brow. At those words, the mouth of the monster spewed out the contents of its stomach. With a high shriek and the clatter of chitin on stone, spiders of all sizes poured from the tunnel, along the floor, walls and ceiling and spread into the chamber. Some were the size of cats, others the size of cattle. The lights they had seen in the tunnel had not been gems, but beady, greedy eyes.

At once, Staubin's faith in the Legion was restored. Acting as one organism, every soldier drew their swords and charged at the beasts. Steel swords sliced through spindly limbs, and black pincers bit at leather armour. Swords bounced off hard, black bodies only to cut into the soft flesh between eyes and limbs. The workers squealed and scattered as more and more spiders poured from the tunnel, their dark mouths dripping with venom. The shrieks of the insects filled the tunnels as scores of them were cut down.

Staubin gasped as a spider locked its eight glowing eyes on him. Its legs twitched and its body shook, and from its mouth a jet of sticky grey poison leapt towards him. In a second, Staubin was lying on the ground. The grey poison shot over his head and hit an unaware soldier in the neck. The effect was instant. Armour and flesh started to bubble and melt as the corrosive spit penetrated every layer. The soldier screamed in agony and fell to the ground, desperately trying to get the poison off of him but only succeeded in scorching his hands. He was finished off by a huge spider pouncing and sinking its pincers into his neck.

The spider was not done with Staubin. As the mage leapt to his feet, the spider pounced with legs splayed and mouth open. A jet of flame erupted from Staubin's hands, roaring through the dark cavern. It hit the spider, halting it in its tracks. The insect fell to the ground shrieking in pain. Its blood bubbled and its limbs shrivelled until all that remained was a charred husk.

Other mages in the cavern began to follow Staubin's example. Rings of fire licked the ground around them before shooting upwards in a great inferno. The cavern was lit by the orange glow of the four swirling fires. As if by a powerful wind, the rings began to spin. The flames grew hotter and taller until black smoke and orange light filled the cavern. The spiders shivered away from the heat and light, and one by one they skittered back into the tunnel, some having to squeeze their gigantic bodies through the narrow hole.

"Good work men," said Staubin, allowing his fire to fizzle out into smoke. "Captain, damage report."

"Two soldiers and a worker dead, sir," said Alethius, wiping blood and ash from his armour.

"I have seen worse starts to expeditions," said Staubin, gathering with the other three mages. All looked drained from the magical exertion.

"What shall we do with the bodies, sir?" asked Alethius, bending over a dead soilder. His armour and chest had been slashed apart by pincers.

"Leave them behind. We don't have time to go back to Markarth, and we can't carry them with us."

"That seems disrespectful, sir," said Alethius, standing to face the mage.

"We can collect them on our return journey. For now, we must push on. Those spiders won't give us any more trouble," said Staubin. He picked up his robes and wandered over to the tunnel. "Follow me."

* * *

The Residential and Business districts were much more pleasant than the Industrial District. Alleys and stone staircases led into caves and up cliff sides where people lived in ancient Dwemer houses. Statues and plants adorned doorways and walkways, and the Palace River poured its away alongside the road that led from the gate to Understone Keep. The city towered above Aicantar as he walked the lower level. Stone bridges crisscrossed above him, with people bustling about their business on every level.

The marketplace occupied one of the few open spaces in the cramped city. The golden gate to the city opened into a cobbled square where vendors of every description screamed their wares. Men and women in flamboyantly garish outfits fought to sell the crowds anything from meat to jewellery to weapons to mining equipment to books. Markarth lived and breathed by the marketplace and the mines, and the vibrant stalls tied together with bunting gave food and shelter to most residents of the city.

Aicantar pushed through crowds of every class, from nobles to beggars. He had a single destination in mind. A small stall decorated in fine jewellery was perched just on the river's edge. Its blue canvas roof fluttered in the light breeze, and the lady behind the stall smiled as she saw Aicantar.

"Aicantar, it's lovely to see you today."

"Likewise, Kerah," said Aicantar, comfortably sitting in a chair behind the stall. "How is business?"

"My husband and daughter are busy at home making more silver jewellery, but it's simply not selling," she said with a sigh. She brushed her charcoal hair away from her wrinkled brown face. Dark eyes shone like the gems she sold.

Aicantar reached up and grabbed a necklace made of silver links. Dark sapphires hung at the bottom, detailed in silver thread. "I don't understand. It's beautiful work," he said, carefully putting the necklace back.

"They are beautiful. Endon is very skilled in his work, and Adara is growing up to be a fine smith, but it's the same beauty that everyone in Markarth has seen every day. With so few travellers in the city, people have got bored of silver," she said. "When Lord Kolskeggr still had his mine, scraps of gold would sometimes fall into our hands. My husband could then make the most glorious adornments you've ever seen." She absentmindedly leant on the countertop.

"Then the Forsworn came," said Aicantar mournfully.

"Then the Forsworn came. Lord Kolskeggr lost his mine, and we lost our gold. What few pieces we had were snapped up instantly, and now business is stagnating."

"You're still one of the wealthier families in the city," said Aicantar.

"Oh Aicantar, I don't mean to compare my problems to the poor of the city. We still have a roof over our head and food on the table, and for that I thank The Eight every day. I just wish people would appreciate my family's work," said Kerah with a gentle smile.

"I may not be able to help with that, but I can give you something new to sell," said Aicantar, pulling out his satchel. Kerah stood up from the counter and frowned in curiosity. Aicantar pulled out a chunky bracelet, woven in bronze and brass. "This belonged to the Dwemer. The stone is missing, but a good-sized ruby would look perfect."

"How did you get this?" asked Kerah, hurriedly shoving the bracelet under the counter.

"My uncle," said Aicantar simply.

"It's perfect, Aicantar," Kerah said, leaning down to give him a soft kiss on the cheek. "How much for it?"

"300 gold and one of those pretty silver rings," said Aicantar, a sly smirk appearing on his face. Kerah was a warrior of bartering, and this part he always enjoyed.

"200 and a hot dinner," said Kerah, folding her arms.

"I dine in the Keep, Kerah. 280 and the ring."

"220 and a 10% discount on all non-gemmed items."

"250, the ring and the discount."

"You insult me, Aicantar."

"Fine. 250 and a 20% discount."

"Done," said Kerah. She hastily counted shining coins into a small purse and dropped it into Aicantar's satchel. "You know that once I put a ruby in that bracelet I can sell it on for 3000 gold, right?"

"I don't have a ruby, Kerah, nor the ability to convince rich people to hand over thousands of gold, and so I think that's the best deal I could get." Aicantar had stood up to leave when a woman approached the stall. Her bright red hair shone in the sun, and fur and gems shimmered on her body.

"Margret, it's a pleasure to see you again," said Kerah with a bright smile.

"Hello, Kerah, has Endon completed my order?" He voice was plummy and sweet. It spoke of wealth and nobility.

"He certainly did. It was for your sister, you said?" Kerah said, pulling a red velvet cushion from underneath the counter. An intricate silver ring was embedded in it, adorned with a glittering diamond.

"Yes. This is beautiful work, your husband should be proud," she said and picked up the small trinket with delicate fingers.

Then it happened. Aicantar felt a change come over the marketplace almost instantly. Dread and tension filled the air. A knife slid out of a shirt. A gloved hand reached for Margret's neck. A dark hand got there first. Kerah grabbed Margret by her fur collar and hoisted her over the counter with strong arms. Jewellery and boxes clattered to the ground as Margret crashed through the stall. A dark and dirty Breton stood on the other side, a steel dagger pointing at the trio.

"The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!" he shouted as he tried to jump after the Imperial noble. As the man landed on the counter, Aicantar leapt up with lightning at his fingertips. With a flick of his fingers, the man was sent flying backwards, blue electricity crackling across his body. He convulsed on the floor for several moments before going still, softly smoking.

"He tried to kill me," shrieked Margret, her screams filling the square. Tears ran down her soft face.

She had not been the only victim. The scene had replayed itself across the marketplace, and Margret was only one of six victims. She was the only one to have survived. The guards quickly cut down the assailants, and blood ran between the cobbles. Chaos erupted across the city as people trampled each other to get to safety, away from the death and violence.

Within minutes the previously bustling square was empty. People could be heard running down the streets, screaming of a Forsworn attack. The guards began to examine the eleven dead, and Aicantar gingerly stepped out from behind the counter. Margret and Kerah were sat on the floor, the Imperial noble quietly sobbing into Kerah's arms. Aicantar knelt by his smoking victim. He wore the uniform of a smelter and looked like any of the city's poor. He stood up and walked to the centre of the square, choking down vomit. He had never seen so much death, and his eyes watered with repugnance. His body shook and beads of sweat appeared on his brow. He felt like he was going to faint, but morbid fascination kept him walking. He stood in the centre of the square, staring at each of the dead. Blood trickled down the cobbles and pooled around his boots. He stared at the unseeing open eyes of the attackers and the victims. Terror had come to Markarth. Aicantar collapsed to the ground.


	2. Two

Aicantar blinked open crusted and blurry eyes. His face and body felt hot and sticky, and the taste of vomit lingered in his mouth. Sunlight struck his eyes, blinding him from his surroundings.

"Aicantar, don't try to move so much," said a voice to his left, a voice he knew. He rolled over, his vision becoming clearer. His mind came back to him in a flash. He shot upright, smacked his head on a beam and fell back down. "I told you," said the voice again.

"Ghorza," said Aicantar, rubbing his head. It hurt like hell. "How did I get up here?"

"Kerah dragged you here," said Ghorza simply. Aicantar looked around the room he had found himself in. He was laid out on a thick table by the forge, the heat from the fire causing his body to sweat uncontrollably.

"Ghorza, how do you stand this heat all day?" Aicantar asked, sliding his body gently off the table. He spied his robes neatly folded on a chair and noticed he was clothed only in a pair of tan trousers.

"Orcs are made of stronger stuff than Elves," laughed the Ghorza. "No Orc would have fainted at the sight of a few dead bodies."

"It was horrible, Ghorza. They came out of nowhere and attacked without reason. I... didn't think something like this could happen. I didn't think the Forsworn could get into the city."

"This is what happens during war, Aicantar, my time in the Legion taught me that, but you should speak no more of the attack," the Orc said, taking a seat at the edge of the table. "The attack never happened."

"What are you talking about?" Aicantar asked.

"The Jarl and guards have denied any such attack taking place. To say otherwise is a criminal offence. There are no Forsworn in Markarth."

"That's madness!" shouted Aicantar, anger bubbling up inside of him. "I killed one of them, Ghorza, I saw the others dead. I saw the ones they'd killed."

Ghorza grabbed hold of Aicantar's wrist and dragged him towards her. "I like you, Elf, so I will give you this warning. If you know what's good for you, you won't talk about this ever happening. You won't even think about it. The Jarl says there are no Forsworn in Markarth, and so we all must believe it to be true."

Aicantar looked fearfully into Ghorza's deep brown eyes. He was confused and hurt, but the glint in her eyes told him all he needed to know. Ghorza released her grip and stood up. Picking up a hammer, she returned to her forge.

"Stay here a while until you're ready to leave. Return those clothes to Tacitus when you can."

"He looked after me?" asked Aicantar, reaching for a flagon of wine he'd just spotted.

"It was disappointing. He was so gentle. Those hands were never meant to work a forge," said Ghorza with a grunt.

"Remind me to thank him," said Aicantar. A small frown creased his face as he sipped the wine.

* * *

The smell of wet dog and sickly incense assaulted Ondolemar as he threw open the doors to the Great Hall. Timid bows and curtsies followed him across the room from servants and the less important courtiers. Distasteful stares came from the braver members of the room. He was flanked by two golden soldiers of the Aldmeri Dominion, expressionless and marching in rigid step. Ondolemar strode with confidence up the steep stone steps towards the Mournful Throne. Midnight blue robes embroidered with gold lightning bolts flapped around him.

"State your business, Elf," said a tall Redguard woman clad in steel. Her hand clutched the pommel of her sword.

"To answer the summons of Igmund," Ondolemar said dryly.

"Let him through, Faleen," said Jarl Igmund, lounging on the throne behind his housecarl.

"So much aggression in this city, Igmund." said Ondolemar, gliding up a few more stone steps. Faleen drew the first few inches of her sword, forcing the tall Elf to halt. "No wonder the Forsworn have declared war on Markarth if even your honoured guests are threatened. I hear rumours of them in the city itself."

"Lies and fearmongering," Jarl Igmund growled. "No Forsworn has stepped foot in Markarth for twenty-five years."

"Of course, Igmund, the guards of Markarth are forever infallible," said Ondolemar with a grin.

"Don't mock me, Ondolemar, you will trust in my ability to hold this city, and by The Eight you will address me by my title." Jarl Igmund was forever frustrated with the Elf.

"I, too, have a title. Once you learn it and address me by it then you shall hear _Jarl_ Igmund come from my lips," said Ondolemar with crossed arms. He was beginning to get bored. His two golden guards stood motionless at his side. "Why have you summoned me, Igmund?"

Jarl Igmund breathed in deeply to contain himself. "In a day's time, Thongvor Silver-Blood will be leading an assault on Karthspire, one of the largest Forsworn bases."

"Very good, I will enjoy hearing of the slaughter of those barbarians," said Ondolemar.

"I would like you to go with him."

Ondolemar's face contorted with laughter. He tilted his head back, and the sound of his mirth echoed throughout the keep. Jarl Igmund was unnerved by the sound as no one had ever heard the Elf laugh. Ondolemar managed to eventually calm himself. "Igmund, why in Oblivion would I do that? The Thalmor have absolutely no business with the Forsworn, regardless of the fact that you have a Court Wizard which you should be asking this of."

"While Court Wizard Calcelmo is a valuable addition to the court in Markarth, he is far from a battle mage. The Forsworn have a magical advantage over us, and we need to limit their power as much as possible," said Jarl Igmund, tapping his foot agitatedly. "I am anxious to see this attack succeed, and thus I need your help."

"I can only imagine how painful that was to say," said Ondolemar. He enjoyed watching Jarl Igmund squirm.

"As far as I'm aware there are only three mages in the city; Court Wizard Calcelmo, who would not be valuable in a fight; his nephew, Aicantar, a young lad who has not proved himself, and you. You are a powerful mage of the Aldmeri Dominion, trained for battle," said Jarl Igmund.

"Not that I'm considering going into battle against the Forsworn, but I shall humour this conversation for my own curiosity. Why should I do this for you?" Ondolemar asked.

"I read your reports. You've lost more than a few good agents to Forsworn attacks. Your power in The Reach can only increase after one of their largest bases is destroyed."

"Any _good_ agent of mine would not be defeated by wild barbarians. If anything the Forsworn are helping me weed out the weak amongst us." Ondolemar took pleasure in seeing Jarl Igmund's deep frown. "If you don't have a decent offer for the Thalmor or myself then there was no point in you summoning me here." Ondolemar turned to leave and placed a foot on a lower step.

"Wait, there's something else."

Ondolemar smiled with his back to Jarl Igmund. He always got his way. He turned around with eyebrows raised in question.

"I will give you the Shrine of Talos," Jarl Igmund said with a hint of despair.

"After all this time you'll finally relinquish it to me? You need my abilities that badly?" Ondolemar was mildly surprised at the bold offer. He was rarely surprised.

"Yes," said Jarl Igmund, his face hardening.

"I can do as I please with it? I can destroy the statues? Kill or imprison any worshippers?"

"There are no Talos worshippers in the city, but yes."

"Someone has been tending to it. There's constantly lit candles and no dust. Igmund, to be clear, I may cleanse the entire building with fire?"

"Yes. By my right as Jarl I grant you custody of the Shrine of Talos to do with as you please if you fight alongside my men to destroy the Forsworn." Jarl Igmund sat forward in the Mournful Throne, staring down at Ondolemar.

"I accept, Igmund. My agents and I are at your disposal."

* * *

Understone Keep was alive with the sound of feasting. Every level of the fire-lit room was full of stone and wooden tables packed with nobles and soldiers. Kegs lined the edges of the room, and servants were busy flooding the room with drink. Three spit fires dominated the Great Hall, and hunks of hog, goat and ox filled hundreds of plates. The night before the battle had arrived, and in Skyrim battle always came after a feast.

Jarl Igmund occupied the centre of the high table in a stone chair laid with velvet cushions. The banner of Markarth was draped behind him, two copper ram horns entwined in a knot on a green background. Thongvor Silver-blood was seated to his right, deep in his drink and reaching for another glass of wine. There was very little conversation between the two men.

Aicantar skirted around the edge of the Great Hall, avoiding the large tables filled with Nord soldiers. Mead frothed from their mouths as they roared in laughter at lewd jokes. Beard and body hair was matted with sweat, drink and food grease, and Aicantar did not intend to be around such barbarianism for long. He never felt comfortable at such events. Understone Keep was his home, but he was forever reminded that Markarth was for the Nords, and an Elf did not belong there. What he needed was some wine, but the lower levels only flowed with beer, ale and mead. He looked longingly at the high table where glasses of red nectar were never empty, but he was less welcome up there than down where he was. While his uncle maintained a permanent position at the far end of the high table, the Court Wizard's nephew was of little importance, and that's how it had always been. He dejectedly grabbed a mug of mead from a serving table and perched himself on a sticky bench. The few Nords at the table shuffled away from him with disdainful looks. He sat hunched over the table, taking sips of the sweet drink while staring at the high table. Jarl Igmund and Thongvor Silver-blood seemed to have struck up an uneasy conversation. Aicantar avoided both those men as much as he could. The court fascinated him, but powerful Nord men rarely gave much time to a young Elf.

To Jarl Igmund's right sat Legate Emmanuel Admand who was deep in conversation with Lady Sungard. Legate Emmanuel had an untouched mug of beer, and Lady Sungard sipped delicately at an amber spirit in a crystal glass. She was another permanent face on the high table, as her family's history and power gained her a constant position of honour. She may have lost her lands and riches, but she still demanded respect.

The final members were representatives of Jarl Igmund's court. His housecarl, Faleen, sat in full steel armour, a sword and bow resting upon her chair. Her smooth dark skin glowed in the firelight, and Aicantar marvelled at the delicate beauty of such a strong warrior. More than once had Jarl Igmund been attacked by would-be assassins. None of them had every got passed his strong Redguard housecarl.

The final member of the table was Jarl Igmund's uncle and steward, Raerek. He sat silently in yellow finery, bedazzled with rubies, emeralds and a brown fur collar. He was not a warrior like his nephew, but he was an effective politician fond of fine things.

"I go to war tomorrow," said Tacitus, taking a seat next to Aicantar. He'd brought with him two mugs of mead.

"You're a Silver-Blood soldier?" asked Aicantar, startled at the Imperial's sudden appearance.

"By The Eight, no!" exclaimed Tacitus with a laugh. "No self-respecting Imperial would throw their lot in with the Silver-Bloods." He took a long swig of mead. "Jarl Igmund has chosen Ghorza to be the army's quartermaster, and I'm to accompany her. There's not much chance of me seeing any fighting."

"Have you ever seen death?" asked Aicantar suddenly.

"No. Bloody awful injuries, sure, but I've never seen anyone die," said Tacitus with a frown.

"It's horrible."

"The attack-"

"Shush, it's not to be spoken of," said Aicantar quickly. "But yes," he said in a whisper.

"You looked like death yourself afterwards. You were feverish and shaking. It was really that bad?"

"I could never have imagined… listen, thank you for taking care of me, it was very kind of you," said Aicantar, breaking the sombre mood with a smile.

Tacitus shook his head. Aicantar noticed how the fire glinted off his blue eyes. "You were dragged into the forge by the silversmith's wife. I couldn't have just left you on the floor."

"Still, you didn't need to clothe and care for me. Such kindness is not common in this city." Both men stared at each other, bashful smiles on their face. Aicantar noticed something different about Tacitus. "You look… clean."

Tacitus laughed once more and looked down at himself. "I couldn't very well come to a feast in Understone Keep covered in the dirt from the forge." His face had been scrubbed clean, revealing tanned skin and sharp stubble. His mop of blonde hair had been tidied and pushed back, and an open shirt had replaced his apron. His dimples and strong jaw remained forever present, as did his thick arms.

"I wish some of these Nords would bother to clean themselves too," said Aicantar, casting his eyes at the rabble.

"They wouldn't be true Nords if they did," said Tacitus, finishing his mug of mead. "I met a few Nords in Cyrodiil, but they were much more civilised."

Aicantar looked up as a shadow was cast over them. He jumped up in surprise and bowed deeply. Tacitus hesitantly stood up, although he had no idea why.

"Even Cyrodiil is barbaric compared to Alinor," said Ondolemar.

"Emissary Ondolemar, it's an honour," said Aicantar, straightening himself.

"Finally, someone in Markarth manages to spit out some manners. Do I have the pleasure of addressing Aicantar, Court Wizard Calcelmo's nephew?" Ondolemar took a seat across the table from them and produced a carafe of wine. Tacitus and Aicantar hesitantly resumed their seats.

"Yes, Emissary, but the pleasure is mine," said Aicantar. Ondolemar poured two glasses from the carafe and pushed one towards Aicantar with the tips of delicate fingers.

"Excuse me, my lord, but are you an Emissary of the Dominion?" asked Tacitus with unbridled curiosity.

"Ondolemar, Second Emissary of the Aldmeri Dominion to Skyrim, Commander of the Twelfth Battalion, Graduate Wizard of Linnoitus and Junior Councilman of the Thalmor. You should be humbled," he finished dryly.

Tacitus sat looking like a blubbering fish for a moment before Aicantar pinched his leg under the table.

"My lord, I am both humbled and honoured," sat Tacitus with a bow of his head.

"Better, but a common boy of Markarth should not simply be honoured. He should be in awe, filled with terror and amazement at my very presence, but not to worry." Ondolemar leaned forward. "You will be." He leaned back and settled into a more comfortable position again. "I'm not here for titles and chit-chat. Aicantar, I have something to discuss with you."

* * *

Legate Emmanuel sighed as he looked over the throng of Nord soldiers filling Understone Keep. The Legion had held a presence in Markarth since the days of Tiber Septim, and he did not like entertaining the thought of it all coming to an end. Reports came in from the frontlines every week, and it wasn't always good news. In a recent letter, General Tullius himself had disclosed sensitive information to Legate Emmanuel, demanding action.

"Legate, it has been very pleasant speaking with you about the war efforts, but I'm afraid I don't know what you want from me," said Lady Sungard with all etiquette.

"I simply want your support for the Legion, my lady," said Legate Emmanuel.

"And you have it, but I'm afraid I can offer nothing but my own personal views in the war. I have no land. I have no men. If you are looking for more power in The Reach then I'm afraid your time is best spent elsewhere," said Lady Sungard. Her crow's feet grew as she squinted at Legate Emmanuel questioningly. Her thin lips sipped at her brandy.

Legate Emmanuel sighed once more. "Lady Sungard, would you care to humour me and join me in the war room?"

"I was asked that many times as a younger woman, but I never expected it in my old age." She gave Legate Emmanuel a cruel grin.

"I never – I mean to say…"

"I'm being mean, Legate. Yes, I shall join you. No one else seems to want to speak to me anyway."

Welcome peace greeted Legate Emmanuel and Lady Sungard in the war room. The thunder of feasting was replaced by the low crackling of a warm fire and the distant hum of Dwemer pipes. The stone table and chairs sat quiet and neat, and the pair silently took their places; Legate Emmanuel at the head of the table with Lady Sungard to his left. Two aged maps curled delicately on the stone. One was a detailed display of The Reach and the other was of the grand Province of Skyrim.

"What do you see, Lady Sungard?" asked Legate Emmanuel.

"Two maps, Legate."

"Indeed, but they are so much more. Look at Skyrim. On this map, it appears so ordered and peaceful. The towns and fortresses have their place, the cities take charge of their holds with uncontested borders," said Legate Emmanuel. His hand stroked the border of Whiterun and The Pale.

"But it is a crucible of blood and flame. Nothing is certain. Many of those towns are nothing but ash and rubble, and those borders change daily depending on who spilt more blood," said Lady Sungard with a hint of pain.

"Now look at The Reach. Tell me what you see."

"Much the same," said Lady Sungard softly. "The Reach is dying like the rest of Skyrim."

"The Legion wants to change that."

"The Legion has spilt just as much blood as the Stormcloaks, destroyed just as many homes," said Lady Sungard, looking up from the map to Legate Emmanuel.

"Countless more will die if we lose this war. If the Empire becomes any weaker… no, that's not my point here. You and I have both seen countless war maps. Even they seem so neat. Imperial land is dusted in red, and Stormcloak land in blue, but it is never that simple. Jarls with small holds or a strong grip have convinced all their Banners and Thanes to fight for their chosen side, but The Reach is not small, and Jarl Igmund doesn't have much of a grip at all. The Reach is a patchwork of politics, and to paint the hold as on the side of The Empire is a gross lie," Legate Emmanuel had been frustrated with his job for many months, but he had very important work to do.

"Jarl Igmund supports The Empire, as do I and many other houses," said Lady Sungard.

"But many don't. The Silver-Bloods want Ulfric as High King, and many families in The Reach may as well be _their_ Banners, not Jarl Igmund's. In Haafingar or Hjaalmarch, the refusal to support The Empire or their Jarl would be treason, and any defiant family would pay for the crime. Jarl Igmund is not powerful enough to dictate such punishment on the Silver-Bloods and their allies, but we can help him."

"How so, Legate?" asked Lady Sungard hopefully. She remembered clearly the joy the Silver-Bloods felt at her family's fall from grace, and she had no wish to see them gain more power.

"I want to retake Fort Sungard," said Legate Emmanuel. He sat up straight in his chair and stared Lady Sungard in her pale blue eyes. Her mouth parted in disbelief. Her wrinkled upper lip twitched slightly.

"You sit here with your poetic talk of maps and war, and this was your plan? I always thought you a straightforward man," said Lady Sungard. The shock of Legate Emmanuel's proposal was still fresh.

Legate Emmanuel's face contorted into a confused frown. "There are many perceptions of me in this court. I am a brainless tin soldier, I'm an imposing leader, I am a Breton imposter. Not once, however, has anyone thought of me as poetic." He shook himself from his thoughts. "Lady Sungard, the Imperial Legion want to give you back your home."

Lady Sungard's years of politicking and ruling came back to her. Her eyes creased with suspicion. "And in return?"

"In return, you will allow us to garrison Fort Sungard with Imperial soldiers, that is all," said Legate Emmanuel.

Lady Sungard once more turned her eyes to the map of Skyrim. Fort Sungard stood proud on a mountain, guarding the point where Whiterun and Falkreath met The Reach. "What's coming, Legate? Fort Sungard has been ripe for the taking for well over a year, and in that time The Legion has been content to ignore the powerful position of Fort Sungard. What is scaring The Legion so much that it now grasps for any stronghold it can?"

"You're a clever woman, Lady Sungard, but I cannot divulge Legion secrets. The offer is there as it stands; let The Legion slaughter the barbaric Forsworn who have taken your home, and in return you shall house The Legion as your guests. Yes, your home will become a prominent war base, but it will be _your home_ again."

* * *

"Emissary Ondolemar, I have never fought in a battle before," said Aicantar, shocked. "I'm not trained for such things as war."

"Aicantar, this is a delicate situation as I've explained. The Forsworn are fearsome, and even a Thalmor mage such as myself might have some trouble. I can only conscript a couple of my agents, but even then we're likely to be wildly outnumbered. I need every willing mage at my side," said Ondolemar. He drained the dregs of his wine. He didn't enjoy asking for Aicantar's help, but if Igmund could stomach grovelling to the Thalmor, then Ondolemar could speak to a young Elven mage.

"Emissary Ondolemar, I still don't think I should," Aicantar said nervously. The thought of more death made his skin go cold. He cast a worried look at Tacitus who remained unhelpfully silent.

"How many times have you left this city?" asked Ondolemar.

"Only once, as a young boy."

"In Alinor, you would have already travelled the length and breadth of The Dominion. Adventure would have awaited around every corner. No Altmer should be wasting away in a cold Nord city such as this. This is the adventure you must crave," said Ondolemar with a gentle smile. It was forced, but Aicantar did not see that.

"My uncle wouldn't even notice me gone," said Aicantar quietly.

"Then you have nothing holding you back. You would have the favour of the Thalmor, you would proudly serve your Jarl and Hold and you would feel the glory of battle." Ondolemar saw the still unsure look on Aicantar's face. He extended his charade of care and placed a warm hand on Aicantar's. With brows raised in understanding, he said. "We will be at the back of the army, and I shall allow no harm to befall either of us."

Aicantar's hand tingled at the warm touch. His mind was made up. With a weak smile, he looked at Tacitus who nodded and then back at Ondolemar. "Very well. To war."

* * *

Jarl Igmund burst into the war room. His face was red with fury. "Legate, you better tell me this is a sick joke," he raged.

"Jarl Igmund, calm yourself and explain!" said Legate Emmanuel with intense authority.

"You are the one who will explain themselves, Imperial snake," Jarl Igmund said rushing towards Legate Emmanuel. Lady Sungard grabbed the Breton's wrist in fear. Calcelmo, Faleen and the bejewelled Raerek had followed Jarl Igmund into the room. Each of them held a look of concern and fear. Jarl Igmund slammed a scroll onto the table in front of the Legate. "Read this. Read it for everyone to hear."

"I know what the scroll says," said Legate Emmanuel, admitting defeat. "Do you trust everyone in this room to know this information?"

Jarl Igmund glanced at the familiar faces, each desperate to know the cause for the chaos. "Do it."

With a deep sigh, Legate Emmanuel removed his steel gauntlets and unfurled the scroll.

" _Igmund, Jarl of Markarth and The Reach, Marquess of the West and Imperial Protector._

_It is with solemn duty that I report the terms of the truce between the Imperial Legion and the Stormcloaks. In honouring the terms that are described forthwith, the Civil War which has torn Skyrim apart will be put on hold so that the Dragonborn may undertake his sacred duty in defeating Alduin the World-Eater. He is in need of peace so that the City of Whiterun may not be threatened as he fulfils his plan to capture a live dragon. To achieve peace, the following terms were agreed and must be upheld:_

_The City of Markarth and the Hold of The Reach shall no longer be under Imperial control. You shall step down as Jarl and take a place in the Court of Solitude as Jarl Elisif the Fair's honoured guest. Thongvor Silver-Blood is hereby named Jarl of Markarth and The Reach, and the Stormcloak's control over the hold shall be absolute._

_The City of Riften and the Hold of The Rift shall no longer be under Stormcloak control. Laila Law-Giver shall step down as Jarl and take a place in the Court of Windhelm as Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak's honoured guest. Maven Black-Briar is hereby named Jarl of Riften and The Rift, and the Imperial Legion's control over the hold shall be absolute._

_Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak shall pay reparations for the massacre at Karthwasten, both for the lives lost and the homes destroyed. All payment will be made to Ainethach, Thane of Karthwasten._

_General Tullius of the Fourth Legion of the Imperial Empire."_

Silence pierced the room once more as betrayal and anger sunk into the spirits of those present. Sorrow grew heavy on the face of Legate Emmanuel.

"Jarl Igmund, this was not my decision. I do not wish to see you removed from Markarth," said the grizzled soldier.

"And yet you hid this from me as General Tullis plots to put the snake Thongvor Silver-Blood on my throne. I will not have it!" he roared as he swept round, staring at everyone in the room. "Do you hear me? Markarth is my home, and no Imperial will take it from me." Wild rage coursed through Jarl Igmund's veins. He was a cornered animal.

"Jarl Igmund, please think carefully. This truce is for peace so that the dragon threat can be dealt with," implored Legate Emmanuel.

"Dragon threat? You think I give a shit about dragons?" said Jarl Igmund, slamming his palms on the table and thrusting his face towards the legate. "The dragons live in the hills and feast on the corpses of burnt Forsworn, and thus they a friend of Markarth's like the bears and wolves."

"But if a dragon were to attack the city-"

"Then we would be safe in houses made of stone. No fire can burn us and no claws can reach us." Jarl Igmund stood and addressed the room. "Anyone who thinks I will willingly hand over the Mournful Throne to the damned Silver-Bloods is an incompetent fool who is not worthy of Markarth. Anyone who disagrees with my decision will be exiled from the city."

Lady Sungard stood slowly from her seat, hands clutched with nerves. "Jarl Igmund, no one here _wants_ to see Thongvor Silver-Blood as Jarl of Markarth, but to turn against the Imperials in defiance? You can't fight the entire Legion by yourself."

"Lady Sungard, you know this pain better than anyone. No one else here knows what it feels like to lose their home. Do you wish such a thing upon me?" Jarl Igmund said.

"Never."

"And what lengths would you go to take back Fort Sungard?"

"There is nothing I would not do," said Lady Sungard stoically, casting a glance at Legate Emmanuel.

"Then I hope I have an ally in you," said Jarl Igmund approaching her.

"By The Eight, Jarl Igmund, you make this difficult, but yes, you have my support. I will not, however, turn my back on The Legion, but I would rather die than help the Silver-Bloods."

Jarl Igmund bowed his approval and slowly turned to face Legate Emmanuel. "I do not want to fight The Legion."

"Then _step down_. You are playing a very dangerous game, and it's going to get you killed," said the legate.

"You know I can't do that. You know General Tullius is a fool to ask that of me." Without thinking, Legate Emmanuel found himself nodding. "I have a question for you, Legate, do you want to see me die?" said Jarl Igmund.

Confusion spread across Legate Emmanuel's face. "No, I do not, Jarl Igmund."

"Then you will not whisper a word of this to Thongvor Silver-Blood." He once again turned to address the room. "If the Silver-Bloods knew of any of this then my head would already be severed from my body. At dawn, Thongvor Silver-Blood and his army will no longer be in the city. Keep your mouths shut and we might yet survive the night."

"Jarl Igmund, I cannot help you in this plot. It defies my orders, it defies the peace!" exclaimed Legate Emmanuel.

"I will have an oath of silence from you, or you will die where you stand. We will renter the Great Hall, we will sip our drinks and eat our food and we will wait out the long night until Thongvor Silver-Blood is gone. Then, Legate, you will leave this city with your soldiers, you will run back to General Tullius and you will tell him what happened here," said Jarl Igmund with the calm clarity of a man who has lost all boundaries. To kill an Imperial Legate would mean true war with The Legion, but that didn't matter. All that mattered was surviving the night.

"A last favour, Jarl Igmund, before we are no longer friends? Before we stand on opposite sides of the city wall, ready for war?" Legate Emmanuel stood there, weary and conflicted. He slowly nodded. "Very well, you have my silence."

* * *

Tacitus breathed a sigh of relief as Ondolemar excused himself from the table. His heart had been racing, and his hands had gone clammy in the presence of the most imposing man he'd ever met. Any of the big Nords in the room looked like children after the fury of an Elf.

"I'm so glad he's gone," he breathed heavily to Aicantar.

"And with him, the wine," Aicantar said with a weak smile. "Tacitus." His eyes brimmed with moisture. His cheeks had gone red, and his skin had gone cold. "Have I made a mistake? Am I going to die tomorrow?"

"Maybe," said Tacitus with a shrug. "This is war, and neither of us are invulnerable, but I'll be damned if I don't do everything I can to keep my only friend alive."

Aicantar wiped a teary eye. "We're friends already?" he said with a wet laugh.

"I've watched over your unconscious body, and you're the only person to not care that I'm a useless smith apprentice. To me, that's friendship," said Tacitus.

"You're not useless, Tacitus," said Aicantar with a serious look.

"You've never seen me smith anything," said Tacitus, refusing to be abashed from his disposition or his good mood. "But you're proving my point. For some reason, you've chosen to believe in me, and I'm grateful. Unfounded faith is faith nonetheless."

Aicantar smiled and shook his head in defeat. "Let's go somewhere else, out of the Great Hall."

"Where?" asked Tacitus.

"Have you ever seen a museum?"

* * *

"The Dwemer Museum," said Aicantar with grandeur as he heaved open a set of heavy bronze doors. A dusty beam of pale light swept across the room and glittered off countless Dwemer treasures tucked into glass display cases or strung up proudly on plaques. Intact animunculi stood on stone podiums, their metal bodies twisted in positions of attack. The malfunctioned bodies of metal spiders littered the bases of the larger beasts.

A grizzled guard in green armour jumped up from a wooden chair at the sound of the door opening. He recognised Aicantar and raised a hand in a friendly salute. "Master Aicantar," he said from underneath a thick brown beard.

"At ease, guardsman," said Aicantar with a friendly nod, and the guard resumed his post in his chair.

Tacitus gingerly stepped around delicate displays of Dwemer craftsmanship and stopped occasionally to admire a specific piece. A purple stone cup with a gold rim. A battered chest plate. A polished bronze cutlery set.

"It gets better as we go," said Aicantar, his voice echoing off the high ceiling.

"I had no idea this was here," said Tacitus in wonder. The entrance hall spilled out into the museum proper where Calcelmo's most treasured displays were kept. The centre of the room housed a Dwarven Centurion, whose soulless metal face and twisted golden joints created an imposing image. It dwarfed everything else in the room. Tacitus felt unnerved at something so large seeming so still and quiet.

A whole wall was taken up by a sheet of metal cogs, all turning for the sake of turning. Hundreds of them spiralled in their slots, teeth locked. They ranged from the size of a fingertip to the size of a man. Tacitus thought it an impressive display of engineering and wealth.

"This one is my favourite," said Aicantar, approaching a final wall. He stood grinning widely at Tacitus as the Imperial stared in wonder. "An entire armoury. My uncle was a very lucky man to find this," said Aicantar. Four complete suits of Dwarven armour rested on wooden mannequins, latticed helmets resplendent with metal plumes covering carved eyes. Weapons of all descriptions covered the walls; longswords and greatswords, flat hammers and twisted maces, small daggers and hefty war axes and pointed bows with their pronged arrows.

"Imagine a unit outfitted in this," said Tacitus. "They'd be unstoppable."

"All of this falling into the wrong hands would be dangerous, but that's why my uncle has his guards. A small army loyal to only him. It's funny, no one in Markarth has better weapons than my uncle, and he doesn't even know how to use them," said Aicantar, already walking away towards another door. Tacitus followed him, not without glancing back at the priceless Dwemer collection.

"This is what I wanted you to see," said Aicantar, pulling open a metal door. A cool breeze whisked into the room as the pair stepped out onto a paved walkway. Grey stone snaked upwards, hugging the mountain until it ended at the door to a tall, grey tower capped in bronze. Half way along, the path narrowed to let a white waterfall roar its way down into the city. "That's my uncle's tower. I don't go in there a lot, and he certainly won't be happy to find you inside."

"Then why are you taking me there? I'm sorry Aicantar, but I don't want to face the wrath of Court Wizard Calcelmo," said Tacitus, taking a step back.

"Don't worry, that's not where we're going," said Aicantar. "Come on!" he said excitedly, grabbing Tacitus by the wrist and dragging him down the path. A few steps led them around a corner and to a worn wooden table in an alcove to the side of the path. Ivy draped from an overhang like a thin green curtain, partially hiding the alcove.

"Is this it?" asked Tacitus, climbing the two short steps, pushing through the ivy. He noticed white pots blooming with lavender and burning heather.

"Take a seat," said Aicantar, sitting on an old wooden chair. Tacitus did as he was asked. It was dark in the alcove; the light being absorbed by the thick stone walls and ceiling and the ivy curtain. Aicantar brushed his hands over a cluster of candles in the centre of the table which promptly flickered with warm flame.

"It's almost creepy," said Tacitus hesitantly as Aicantar produced a bottle of wine from a low shelf and began pouring.

"Look over there," said Aicantar with a knowing smile. He gestured to the rock wall where an oval window had been cut. Tacitus stood up and walked over, resting his arms on the ledge. Aicantar joined him. "Have you ever seen something so beautiful?"

Tacitus hadn't realised how high they were. The view was of the entire city of Markarth. Orange light pooled from countless windows and lanterns, lighting the narrow, snaking streets and walkways. Each chasm and overhang could be peeked into. Tacitus watched the priestesses of Dibella perform their nightly pilgrimage around the city in their burning orange robes before returning to the incense infused, glittering Temple of Dibella. He watched patrols snake back and forth from the impossibly tall guards tower, yet he could still see over it. The night shift changed in Cidhna Mine. Ghorza put out the lanterns in her water work forge. Smelters and refineries belched out orange light, black smoke and the constant din of hammered metal.

"Look out further, beyond the city," said Aicantar, pointing.

The city wall stood strong from one side of the canyon to the other. Light glowed from walkways, storerooms and siege positions. It was a hollow hive, the pointed green guards ready to defend the city with their lives. Beyond the wall, however, the world was quiet. White moonlight shone on stables and barns, their makeshift wooden extensions tacked onto ancient Dwemer dwellings. Guard towers followed the sides of the canyon, a tower on alternate sides every quarter mile. A torch shone from the hollow lookout posts that crowned each tower, a guard in waiting. Between each tower, a pale grey wall rose from the ground, cutting most of the way across the widening canyon. This left a narrow, winding road that snaked between walls and guard posts. Following the road was the blue river that rushed from a grate in the city wall. The ingenuity of the Dwemer had turned a dark canyon into the most defensible city in Skyrim. An army could easily be stopped before they got near the city.

Beyond the fortifications, the canyon dropped into a low field where farmhouses dotted ploughed earth. Lord Skaggi Scar-Face's mine could be glimpsed behind a wall of rock. Passed the small patch of peaceful country, the river turned and headed North, beyond which a high mountain blocked all view.

"Everything is so far away. From inside the city, Markarth feels like the whole world. You get lost in the noise and the smoke, but from up here it all looks so small. The rest of the world is stretched out beyond Markarth, and no one in this city even realises," said Tacitus, wistfully.

"That's why I come up here. Nothing can get you this high up. All the worries, all the dangers are left down in that city. It's safe above the Jarl, above the Silver-Bloods, above the Thalmor," said Aicantar.

"I think I understand. Even if the war came to Markarth, it's hard to think it could reach us so high above the city," said Tacitus. He turned away from the view and sat down at the table. Aicantar followed him pensively.

"We both go to war tomorrow," said Tacitus.

"What did I say about no worries following us?" said Aicantar.

"I know, but I think you need to talk about this. You killed a man," he said sternly.

"I know that, Tacitus," said Aicantar, getting agitated. His blue eyes glowed, and his wide nostrils flared.

"You killed a man, saw a dozen dead bodies and it broke you. Do you really think you're ready for battle?" asked Tacitus, grabbing his hand. He stared intensely into the Elf's eyes.

"Why are you doing this, Tacitus?" asked Aicantar pulling away.

"Because tomorrow you might kill a dozen men and see many, many dozens of bodies. I need to know that you're ready, because the moment someone's mind breaks in battle, they're dead. You _cannot_ allow that to happen," said Tacitus, his voice filled with worry.

Aicantar breathed deeply and looked down into his drink. "I don't intend to kill tomorrow. Emissary Ondolemar wants me to, but I won't do it," he said quietly.

"Then why are you coming?" asked Tacitus, visibly confused.

"Because I've never left this city. I come here every night and stare out there, but I've never stepped foot outside those walls, at least not since I was a baby. My uncle has forbidden it, and no one has ever offered me an escape until Emissary Ondolemar this evening. I can't turn away from that," said Aicantar sullenly.

"Why is it forbidden?" asked Tacitus softly.

Aicantar looked up with raised brows and smiled. "I know healing magic as well as spells that can shield from magic _and_ swords and arrows. Tomorrow my job will be to keep the other mages from harm as well as care for the wounded. I intend to keep myself as far from harm's way as possible. Does that satisfy you?"

Tacitus decided to ignore Aicantar's avoidance from his question. "I suppose it will have to, thank you," he said with a gentle smile.

The creak of the metal door broke them from their private world. Tacitus jumped in shock and looked around in worry, but Aicantar put a hand on his wrist to calm him. "Uncle?" he called out. A few seconds later, the ivy curtain was pulled aside and a dazed looking Calcelmo stepped into the alcove. Tacitus stood up in respect.

"Aicantar, there you are," said Calcelmo with his gruff, wise voice. His silver beard and orange eyes peeked from under his blue hood. His eyes darted to Tacitus. "Who is this?"

"Uncle, this is Tacitus. He's Ghorza's assistant," said Aicantar simply.

Calcelmo's face softened, and he shot a hand in Tacitus' direction. Tacitus took it hesitantly which was received by an eager shake from Calcelmo. "I've heard much about you, Tacitus. Moth says you have great potential."

Tacitus looked shocked for a moment, blushed and smiled. "Thank you, sir."

Calcelmo turned back towards Aicantar, a more serious tone returning to his aged face. "Aicantar, I must ask, no – demand something of you."

Aicantar looked worried and glanced at Tacitus. "What is it, uncle?"

"Tomorrow you must leave the city," he said. "That is non-negotiable. I cannot tell you what nor why, but Markarth is about to become a very dangerous place, and you cannot be here." Aicantar opened his mouth to reply, closed it again and looked away from his uncle. Calcelmo caught onto the deflective look immediately. "What have you done, boy?" he asked seriously.

Aicantar looked back up at his uncle and steeled himself. "I have agreed to go to Karthspire tomorrow."

Calcelmo's eyes widened in anger and shock. "Agreed? Agreed to who?"

"Emissary Ondolemar," he said quickly. He continued before his uncle could say another word. "I won't be involved in the fighting. My magic is needed for healing and shielding, and Tacitus and Ghorza will be there. Emissary Ondolemar has also promised me his protection."

Calcelmo looked angry and confused, but his face faded into sorrow. "What have you got yourself into?" he asked softly. He sighed deeply. "I suppose I should expect this. Every corner of The Reach is filled with war and death, and I cannot allow you to stay in Markarth, so I suppose it is wise I send you out with friends and protectors."

Aicantar looked shocked at his uncle's acceptance. From being forbidden from leaving the city to permission to enter battle? It didn't add up. "Uncle, what is about to happen? Is it really that bad?"

"I've already said all I can say. I know it isn't much, but trust my word on the severity of the danger. I would not allow this unless I had to. You stick with Tacitus and Ghorza, you hear me? And Ondolemar. I do not trust the Thalmor, but I cannot imagine he means you any harm." In a flash, he had grabbed Aicantar by the wrist. "You must promise me you will stay away from the Silver-Bloods, do you hear me? Promise," he said intensely.

"I promise, uncle," Aicantar said fearfully.

"You will avoid them at any cost. You will not look at them. You will not let them see you."

"I said I promise, uncle," Aicantar said hurriedly but with slight force. More and more didn't add up.

Calcelmo let go of Aicantar and straightened himself. He still looked worried, but he was calmer. "Go to bed, both of you. I will see you off in the morning, but heed my warnings you two." He cast a stern look at Tacitus. "Goodnight," he said emotionlessly and backed away through the ivy curtain. His footsteps could be heard heading towards his tower.

"That was strange," said Aicantar, staring at the twirling ivy.

"I know. What could be happening in Markarth?" said Tacitus, taking a place beside Aicantar.

"No," said Aicantar, turning towards Tacitus. "He was _nice_ to you."


	3. Three

Markarth rested in the rare few hours of darkness that existed in the city. The night fires had long since burned out, and no one was awake to relight him, and so the city gently slept under the thin light of waning moons. The darks crags and chasms of Markarth rolled down from Understone Keep, snaking alongside the Palace River until they reached the market square. Dozens of empty stools guarded the open space, bathed only in the softest moonlight and the torch glow of the wall. The night patrols were the few left awake as they marched the twisted paths of the honeycomb wall. Orange light spilled from storeroom windows and pillared cloisters. On the other side of the city, by the Forge River, pinpricks of yellow light shone from the silver smelters. They pumped black smoke into the city that rose above the houses and cliffs, before drifting into the snowy mountains. A smelter was never allowed to go cold, and any worker who made such a mistake was beaten to an inch of his life.

Aicantar watched the few distant lights in the city for many hours. The guards on the walls marched their unceasing patrols, and the few unlucky smelters fed coal into the roaring forges. Other than that, not a soul moved in the streets of Markarth.

The farthest horizon drifted into life. The black sky was stained with the darkest blue, and his heart felt heavy with the first whispers of dawn. His ivy-draped alcove had become his bed for the night, but he did not sleep. Instead, he wrapped thick furs around him and lost himself in thought for hours, ignoring the night drifting on and the air getting colder. The plants were covered in a thick layer of frost, but his furs and magic had kept him warm. A small fire heated a black kettle, and he clutched a steaming mug of bitter tea. It had been a long night, and Tacitus had left him many hours ago, but he had a found a strange peace in watching thousands of people slowly drift to sleep.

The horizon got lighter as the blue sky got paler. He knew it wasn't long before the city woke up and he would march out the gates, yet he could not move. The air was too still and the city too quiet to be disturbed, so he allowed himself the last moments of peace before he headed into the unknown.

The peace did not last long. The slap of feet on stone shook him away from the city, and he listened with tense muscles until the ivy was gently brushed away. Stood before him was his uncle, dressed in nothing but a thick fur robe that reached the cold stone floor. His signature purple robes were nowhere to be seen, and his silver hair and beard were messy from a night's sleep.

"I didn't expect you up so early," said Aicantar with a yawn.

"I didn't expect you up either, but I saw your fire from my window," he said. "May I?" he asked, gesturing to the empty chair. Aicantar nodded, and Calcelmo lowered himself onto the hard wood with a groan. He wrapped the brown furs tight around himself until his neck was swallowed in bear pelt. "May I have some tea?"

Aicantar smiled and poured the bitter brown tea into a clay mug and handed it to Calcelmo. Both elves sat in silence for several minutes, wrapped in fur while gently sipping their tea. Neither knew what to say to each other, so they didn't say anything as the first lights in the city began to appear. It was the Temple of Dibella that awoke first. Women clad in orange robes that hid all but their eyes marched in two neat lines out of bronze doors. The first few carried piles of kindling, the next vats of oil and the next flaming torches. All those behind held incense burners on chains or poles with the flower of Dibella held aloft. The lines split, flowing north and south. When reaching the first brazier, a devotee placed her kindling and continued her march. The next poured a thin dribble of amber oil from a golden vat, and the last would bow deeply and kiss the wood with her torch. The cycle continued until the temple was radiant once more. Atop the crag that split Markarth, bathed in white starlight and warm flames, the Temple of Dibella truly looked ethereal. Gardens of orange and white flowers lined walkways and hung off banisters, metal planters spilling over with vines and berries swung in the light breeze, and the Miracle of Dibella hung over the city streets – a single blossom tree that grew straight from the cold rock. Spring had long since left Markarth, but during those bright months a constant rain of pink petals fell into the city below. Now, the tree dropped heavy red apples which often landed on unwary citizens, including Aicantar several times. The procession left the cloisters and stairways of the temple and headed into the city, lighting burners and braziers as they went. The Devotees of Dibella bathed the dark alleys and bridges in flame, and the silent night was over.

"you weren't going to tell me, were you?" asked Calcelmo as the procession ended with two guards donned in white ceramic plate armour strapped to silver chainmail. The heavy Nord women hefted pointed halberds as they followed the devotees into Markarth.

"That I was leaving? No," said Aicantar simply. He felt ashamed, and he hoped that his uncle wouldn't press further.

"You didn't think I would notice? Aicantar, I would have no idea where you were. You could die out there, and I would never know," Calcelmo said, placing his tea on the table and swivelling in his chair to face his nephew.

"I'm sorry, uncle, but you're always so wrapped up in your research or the Jarl, I didn't think it would make much difference. You don't know where I am or what I do, anyway. You never ask, and our lives rarely cross over."

"Oh, don't I?" said Calcelmo with a mischievous smirk. "I don't ask, my boy, because I know. I have kept a close eye on you since before you could walk, and you have very few secrets from me. I know that you steal from my laboratory and museum and sell my collection around Markarth."

Aicantar was horrified. He expected to get a clip round the ear there and then, but all he got was a warm smile and a pat on the arm. "How did you find out?"

"Ghorza let a few things slip to Moth, who let a few things slip to me. Everyone talks in the Keep."

"Why didn't you stop me?" he asked.

"Every boy needs a hobby, besides you're quite good. Had Ghorza never said anything, I doubt I would have noticed anything missing," he said, turning back to watch the city.

"Was that a compliment?" asked Aicantar with his tongue in his cheek.

"My old age must be getting to me," Calcelmo laughed. There was a pause as they let their smiles drift away. "I also know that you killed a Forsworn assassin."

"The Jarl says it didn't happen," said Aicantar without emotion. He couldn't look at his uncle.

"But it did, and you could've died."

"The assassin wasn't for me. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Or the right place. That woman and the silversmith's wife may well have died without you. I want you to remember that. Ghorza said that taking someone's life hit you hard, but do not forget that someone else is alive because of it," said Calcelmo.

"But what if one day I have to decide whose life is worth more?" he said, his eyes beginning to water. His tears did not go unnoticed.

"Let us hope you never have to make that decision, but if it comes to it, you have to choose yourself. The young always want to be heroes, but your first priority must always be you. Then your friends." Calcelmo could see the conversation was not helping his nephew, so with a gentle squeeze of Aicantar's arm and another serving of tea, he moved on.

"Speaking of friends, you and that Tacitus boy seem to be… close."

Aicantar knew what that meant, and he couldn't help but laugh. "Imperials are not my type."

"No one seems to be your type. I see much, Aicantar, but I have never seen you involved with someone." From somewhere within his fur robe, Calcelmo produced a paper bag which he placed on the table. From it, he produced two sticky sweetrolls, and Aicantar gratefully took one.

"You're one to talk," he said, licking sweet icing off his fingers. "All my life, and you've never set eyes on a woman."

Calcelmo waved his hand and huffed. "I spent far too much time on my research that by the time I looked up everyone was gone, and so I looked back down again." Calcelmo turned back towards his nephew with a glint in his eye. "But you don't know as much about me as you might think."

Aicantar opened his mouth to respond, but a horn echoed across the city. A silhouetted guard stood by the tower that pierced the centre of the city on the far side of the Temple of Dibella. He pressed a goat horn to his lips and let out another short, tinny burst of noise. It was the changing of the watch, and Aicantar cast his eyes to the horizon which now burst with the first rays of a rising sun.

"You better get yourself ready. Battle awaits you."

* * *

Thongvor Silver-Blood raised his gauntleted hand to shield his eyes from the red dawn sun. Light pierced the canyon as the sun peaked over the distant mountain and bathed the stone walls and green fields in warm orange light. From the city wall and the field before it, horns rumbled a deep threatening note. He turned to face rigid lines of soldiers in shining steel armour and red shields. Banners fluttered above the 600 men, emblazoned with the sigil of Clan Silver-Blood; a silver dagger striking an ingot on a sea of blood. He lifted his steel helmet from the crook of his elbow and slapped it onto his head, hiding all but his pale blue eyes. The horns blasted across the canyon once more, prompting the army to begin their long march to Karthspire. War drums started a slow, ominous beat as steel capped boots stepped in time. Thongvor Silver-Blood sat motionless atop his war horse as soldiers marched beneath him. A banner fluttered passed him, and he allowed himself the briefest of smiles. He had been born to lead an army, and he had never lost a battle in his 50 years. Jarl Igmund's newfound ambition frustrated him, but the chance to slaughter Forsworn was welcome. Being cooped up in the Treasury House and Understone Keep had made him soft, and a good bloodbath would bring him back to his senses. With one last check of his armour, he flicked the reigns of his horse and trotted to the front of his army.

Jarl Igmund wrapped his furs tightly around himself against the cool morning. White frost covered the bronze towers, and a thin sheen of mist sat on the icy fields before him. He watched with grim relief as the red soldiers marched away from Markarth. Sooner or later they would be marching back, demanding his head, but for now they were gone. Faleen stood to his side, a collar of black fur tickling her cheeks.

"We made it," she breathed quietly.

"Not yet we haven't," said Jarl Igmund with a sigh. "This is only the beginning."

"So what's next? What must we do to keep Markarth within our grasp?" she asked with grim determination.

"First we need to _get_ Markarth within our grasp. The enemy has not yet left the city. More Silver-Bloods linger in the Treasury House, and their threat is as great as Thongvor's. If it came to it, how many guards would be loyal to me?"

There was a pause as Faleen bit her lip. "It's hard to say. I know many of them personally, and they are all good strong men, but it is easy for good men to fall into the Silver-Bloods' pocket." There was a further pause as she turned towards the city. "About half, give or take. Certainly every man within Understone Keep."

"It's not good enough, but it's a start. Make sure no new or unfamiliar guards are posted in the Keep."

"With all due respect, my Jarl, we cannot hope to fend off Thongvor when he inevitably returns if the city is not ours," said Faleen. Jarl Igmund did not look at her. He stared as the red soldiers snaked their way along the cobbled road, passed watch towers where Jarl Igmund's men stood on guard, refusing to provoke the soldiers in any way. That did not stop some Silver-Blood soldiers showing crude gestures to the watchmen.

"I still have soldiers not fighting in this god's cursed war. There's an entire battalion stationed at Left Hand Mine, just there," he said, pointing to a cliff that jutted into the farmland. "They can be called into the city when the time comes. There's also Deep Folk Crossing, but I'm certain they'll be needed there. Other than that, I've sent word to my generals across Skyrim. Some messages will reach them in time, others won't. Some might ignore me and carry on fighting the Stormcloaks. We will just have to wait and see what help arrives."

"When it comes to war, your family home will be a prime target for the Silver-Bloods, but is it as important as Markarth?"

"Perhaps not, but it is one of the few ways into the Reach, and so its value is immense. Any army invading from the north must cross the Karth or the Deep Folk. As it stands, Deep Folk Crossing is still mine, and Karthwasten is loyal to me. The north is our strongest position in this whole damn hold," said Jarl Igmund. He was already creating a map of his supporters and those who follow the Silver-Bloods.

"But who would be looking to attack from the north?" asked Faleen, but she realised the answer as she asked her question. Both her and Jarl Igmund stared as a lone rider left Markarth, steel armour covered in a red cloak emblazoned with a dragon.

"Imperials."

* * *

The rear-guard seemed friendly enough, if a little distant, pondered Aicantar as he trudged at the back of the red hoard. It was strange to see a full army dressed for war, but it gave him a sense of childish excitement. The guards of Markarth had always intimidated him slightly, but he saw now that they were just tame peacekeepers, not a wave in the tide of war as the Silver-Bloods were. He noticed it wasn't only the shields and banners that shone with Silver-Blood patriotism, but their faces. Red and silver war paint splattered the dirty faces of the Nord soldiers, and the colours often showed on the flowing tattoos that snaked down bulging arms. A skinny, clean elf did not seem to fit, but he was with Ondolemar, and the Thalmor agent was as confident as ever. His golden guards remained ever present, joined by two more in identical gleaming, feathered armour. They all wore stoic faces. What impressed Aicantar the most was the additional Thalmor mage, dressed in the same dark robes as Ondolemar, but the gold lightning wasn't nearly as vivid, and the collar wasn't nearly so high. He also lacked a gold rim around his hood. It was a subtle show of office, but a good eye could spot it. Joining the Thalmor and the rear-guard were the other odds-and-ends of the army. Cooks hefted large pots on their shoulders filled with meats and winter vegetables. Healers hoisted small crates of clinking tinctures and bushels of herbs. The scouts not on active patrol twiddled their bows and laughed with the other guards. Finally, there was Ghorza and Tacitus, accompanied by a fat pony pulling a cart that bristled with weapons. Armour clanged together in small piles, and a squat anvil swung from a rope on one side of cart.

"Karthspire isn't as far from Markarth as most would think," said Ondolemar suddenly, causing Aicantar to turn. "I'm sure it's clever propaganda on behalf of the court to stop people whispering about Forsworn on the doorstep, but we should be there by nightfall," he said with the tone of someone simply wanting to be heard.

"Are we to attack them at night?" asked Aicantar.

"Possibly," said Ondolemar with a frown. "I am not privy to the tactics decided by Lord Silver-Blood and his generals, but I shouldn't think it would matter either way."

"What do you mean?"

"One starts a battle at night so that one maintains the element of surprise, however the Forsworn are the best guerrilla fighters in Skyrim. We've barely left the city, but no doubt they already know we're coming," he said with a raised brow, casting a glance at Aicantar.

"Does that not frighten you, that they may be watching us right now?" asked Aicantar with visible nerves.

Ghorza gave a sharp grunt.

"You have something to say, Orc?" asked Ondolemar with a sneer.

"The boy has never left the city. Anyone who travels the Reach gets used to the eyes," said Ghorza, patting the pony's nose with her thick green hand.

"I'm afraid she's right," said Ondolemar. Agreeing with an orc was not what he was used to.

"You said they're the best guerrilla fighters in Skyrim? I've never heard anyone compliment the Forsworn, my Lord," said Tacitus.

"If they were easy to kill, do you think they'd have control of the countryside?" said Ondolemar with a hint of frustration. "They are bloodthirsty savages, yes, but they're good fighters with smart leaders. Hundreds of groups in history have tried to take over a country with this kind of warfare, but very few succeeded. The Bosmer and Argonians are good guerrilla fighters, but they have cities and armies to help with supplies and organisation. The Forsworn have nothing, yet they terrorise even the strongest opponents. Respect where it's due."

There was silence apart from the dull thud of the marching army. Aicantar looked to where the head of the snake stood atop a rock in the distance. Thongvor Silver-blood watched his army as Aicantar watched him and remembered his uncle's words. He was glad to be at the back of the column. He took a deep breath.

"The air out here almost smells sweet," he said with a small smile.

Tacitus laughed. "You've only ever smelt the bitter smoke of Markarth. Out here, it's pure and cold. I almost envy the Forsworn sometimes. It's beautiful when you're not trapped in the city."

Aicantar looked across the countryside in the red dawn. He saw cold mist roll down from the mountains as the fields gave way to wild meadows and stunted juniper orchards. He couldn't help but agree.

* * *

"We are at a disadvantage in almost every respect," said Jarl Igmund. "The only thing on our side is the element of surprise. Sooner or later, the Silver-Bloods will find out the truth, and we need to make sure we've done everything we can to be prepared." The war room was quiet. Jarl Igmund's closest advisors and friends didn't make a sound as he raised his brows questioningly. "Nothing?"

"My Jarl," Faleen said to his right. "Short of marching to the Treasury House and arresting Thonar Silver-Blood, there isn't much we can do. I've already done a thorough check of the guards in Understone Keep, and I'm willing to bet my life that they are all loyal to you."

"And how many guards are there in the keep?" asked Jarl Igmund, swivelling in his chair to face his housecarl.

"Two dozen. Court Wizard Calcelmo has kindly given me command of all the guards from the excavation site and his museum," she said, her hazel eyes dancing across the table to Calcelmo, and she flashed a bashful smile. Calcelmo choked under her gaze, his cheeks turning orange.

"It is the least I can do, my Jarl. Truly," he spluttered, tugging on his white beard.

"Good. With only one way into the keep, two dozen guards can hold the door for a long time."

Raerek placed his hand daintily on the stone table and tapped it with his knuckles. His wrinkled neck wobbled with every word, and small jewels clinked each time he moved. "it's a start, nephew, but Understone Keep is not the city."

"I know, uncle. How do you suggest we take the city?" said Jarl Igmund with growing frustration.

"With our soldiers locked away in the Keep, the Silver-Bloods outnumber us two to one in the streets. They have the mines, the foundries, the marketplace, the Treasury House and the Guard Tower. Any and all defensible places within the city are theirs," said Raerek, spitefully ticking off fingers as he listed the Silver-Blood properties.

"We must have something," grunted Moth gro-Bagol, his meaty green arms crossed as he lounged in his chair.

"Except for this prison?" asked Jarl Igmund. "Nothing."

"Then we call upon our allies," said Faleen. "Withdraw your soldiers from Left Hand Mine. That'll even the odds a bit."

"Lord Skaggi would never forgive me for abandoning him. When Thongvor Silver-Blood returns, he'll seize the mine in a heartbeat, and that's if Lord Skaggi doesn't defect when I leave him to the mercy of the Forsworn."

"Besides," said Moth. "I'm sure the Silver-Bloods are suspicious already. If they see a battalion of your men marching on the city, they'll prepare a defence immediately."

"But that's it," said Faleen with sudden excitement. "We have the watchtowers and the stables. It's not much, but the road into the city is ours."

"The road does not help us, Faleen," said Jarl Igmund.

"Hear me out. Most of the men on the walls are your soldiers. It won't take me much to fiddle the guard rotas and assign the Silver-Blood men elsewhere. With any luck, they won't even notice."

"And then we have the wall," said Calcelmo, beaming at Faleen, his yellow eyes twinkling.

"More than that, it leaves the path free for us to sneak soldiers away from Left Hand Mine. They come to the city at night, and we stow them away in storerooms and hidey-holes within the wall," said Faleen, eagerly looking at Jarl Igmund who only offered silent thought.

Jarl Igmund tapped his nose before wrinkling it in the smallest of smiles. "When the time comes, the Silver-Bloods won't expect so many men to attack from the walls. We'll have them trapped between two fronts, and all we have to do is squeeze." He looked around the room with a hopeful glint in his blue eyes. "It might just work."

"There's a lot of risk there. Too much risk," said Raerek, shaking his head. His jowls wiggled with the motion. "We need more."

"You're right, of course, but it's an excellent start. Besides, the soldiers at Left Hand Mine will be hugely outnumbered when Thongvor returns, so better to put them to good use than let them die in vain. Thank you, Faleen. Go, all of you, prepare yourselves in whatever small way you can. The attack will come without warning, and I only hope I can get my men inside the walls in time," said Jarl Igmund with a wave of his hand. Those gathered stood up and bowed before drifting out of the war room. All except Calcelmo.

"Jarl Igmund, may I speak with you?" asked Calcelmo. With a sigh, Jarl Igmund beckoned him over. "My Jarl, I may have done a stupid thing."

"What have you done?" Jarl Igmund demanded with equal measures anger and fear.

"Nothing to hurt the war effort, not directly at least," said Calcelmo. The look in Jarl Igmund's eyes dampened slightly. "It's my nephew, Aicantar. With all the trouble going on in the city and- well, he came to me saying he was leaving the city, and I had to let him go. It's far too dangerous here."

"And why is this a problem?"

"He's off to fight the Forsworn with the Silver-Bloods. I thought… I thought if something went wrong he could escape. If something happens in the city then there's no way out," said Calcelmo.

"You worried about your nephew's safety, so you sent him to war? Calcelmo, I don't understand," said Jarl Igmund with a frown.

"He'll be at the back of the lines. A healer more than a soldier. Emissary Ondolemar swore that he would protect Aicantar. Ghorza and her assistant will too," said Calcelmo. He paused and took a deep breath. "Jarl Igmund, I don't know if we can win this."

"We will win this," said Jarl Igmund with a cold look.

"But if we don't, then you'll be killed. Faleen will be killed, Raerek will be killed. A court wizard, however, serves the city not his Jarl. I have held this post for 200 years. I served your ancestors, I served your father, but I also served the Forsworn when they held the city. I served Ulfric Stormcloak. I survive whoever wins, but my loyalty is to you. The cruelty of the Stormcloaks is not something I wish to return to Markarth, but I will survive if it does. That protection, however, does not extend to my kin. Do you understand?"

Jarl Igmund looked away from Calcelmo and to the map before him. Small counters showed fortresses and armies, some a deep green but most of them were blood red. "I think I understand. This city is a prison, and when it burns no one escapes the blaze. Out there, no matter the odds, there's always hope. There is no hope left in Markarth, not unless I can reclaim the city from those snakes."

"Thank you, Jarl Igmund. I didn't know if I'd made the right choice." Calcelmo lowered himself into a stone chair. "But you're right. We still need to reclaim the city. I think I have an idea."

* * *

The heat of many roaring fires hit Kerah as she creaked open the door to the Silver-Blood Inn. Orange light bathed her face, and the raucous sounds of the inn assaulted her ears. Lively conversations bounced around fire places, and metal mugs scraped along wooden counters. The bartender was greasy and miserable, and his plump wife barked constant orders at him from a corner of the room. The lilting sound of a lute fluttered behind the sounds of a brawl. She glanced over to the corner where two unwashed Nords wrestled each other across a table. She shook her head and glided her way to one of several corridors leading from the hall. Dwarven gas lanterns cast a soft green glow over her as the noise of merriment faded away behind her. A slither of orange light crept out from the ajar door at the end of the corridor, and Kerah took a deep breath before creaking the bronze door open.

"Kerah, come in quickly," said the woman sat in a stone chair by the fireplace. Kerah locked the door and dutifully slid into the adjacent chair. Her back remained straight and her hands lay clenched in her lap. "You can relax, my friend, the Legion gave me wards to protect this room. No one can hear us, and no one can come in."

"After what happened in the market, can we really be sure that we're safe." There was silence as the two women stared into the fire. "Margret?"

"What happened in the market was… incalculable. If that elf hadn't been there, and if you hadn't dragged me away-"

"We cannot think about that. The point is you survived," Kerah said.

"But my agents didn't. All of them were killed in the attack," said Margret, standing up. She walked over to a silver drinks trolley, pushing a lock of burning orange hair away from her fair face. Brandy dribbled from a crystal decanter into matching glasses, and Margret passed one of them to Kerah who accepted it gratefully. "We were not in Markarth for the Forsworn, but they targeted us. How did they find out about us, and why did they care enough to slaughter my people?" said Margret in an increasingly frantic babble. She paced about the room, waving her free hand wildly. "It doesn't make sense. It just doesn't! It was needless and barbaric-"

"And that's what the Forsworn are known for. They pillage and maim and slaughter any outsider in the Reach, and that includes us," said Kerah, standing up. She took Margret by the hand and led her back to the stone chair. She threw another log on the fire as she spoke. "They hate the Nords, they hate the Orcs, they hate Jarls and Lords and Thanes. Why should it be, then, that they would spare Imperial agents?"

"Kerah," Margret said, turning to the Redguard with glimmering brown eyes. "You are a true friend and an invaluable ally to the Imperial Legion, but there is a bigger picture here that you're not seeing." She stood up and walked to a stone shelf embedded in the wall. She gently grasped the red leather hilt of a polished steel dagger. She brought it back to the fireplace and handed it to Kerah. The Redguard woman took the blade, twisting it so that the firelight shone off the bright metal. "This is the weapon the Forsworn tried to kill me with."

"Why are you showing this to me?" asked Kerah.

"For one, while the blade itself isn't special, it's far too expensive for a silver miner to afford. Each of the assassins carried similar blades, and that means someone funded the attack. Secondly, it's just a dagger. The Forsworn specialise in acts of terrorism, and in doing so they want to cause as much damage and fear as possible. Do you remember the attack on Salvius Farm a few years back?"

"Yes, they used alchemical explosives to demolish the farmhouses. A lot of young men died that day," said Kerah.

"It was a tragedy, but can you imagine the damage that six men armed with those explosives could have done in the market square? But instead they had little steel daggers," said Margret, snatching the weapon back and holding it in the air.

"I think I'm starting to see," said Kerah with a deep frown.

"This was not an act of terrorism. It was a deliberate assassination attempt on specific targets, those being hidden agents of the Imperial Legion. Someone found out about our mission, and that someone did not want us to succeed," said Margret. She didn't want to admit it, but the thrill of the mystery excited her. She couldn't help but crack a small smile.

"But why?" asked Kerah.

"That, my friend, is the question we need to answer."

* * *

As the day rolled on and the army crossed the great Stone River that flowed from the city, the lush valley gave way to grey rock and grey shrubs. Mist seeped down from the high mountains on either side, mixing with the spray from countless waterfalls, yet the cobbled road snaked ever onward. The sun shone high above the weathered valley, but in a few hours it would sink behind the opposing mountains, and the Reach would once again be shrouded in ghostly darkness. Aicantar knew that they were nearing Karthspire. As the army drew closer to battle, a churning fear gripped his stomach, but he was determined to not let it show. If any of the others felt it, then they were certainly hiding it well. Tacitus, Ghorza and Ondolemar were finally finding common ground by discussing the one thing they all loathed – Stormcloaks.

"It's as if they're brainless, drunken Nords. They grab weapons and run to war like children playing in gardens," said Tacitus. "I'd like to see how their fervour collapses once they really feel the heat of war."

"They _are_ a rabble of unruly drunken Nords. There's no structure, no tactics. I saw their defeat at Whiterun, and it was truly embarrassing," said Ondolemar. He despised the Stormcloaks, if only for their lack of manners.

"I heard that they lost, but details of the siege never reached Markarth," said Ghorza. "If they'd only let one good Orc into their army then I'm sure they'd have won," she said with a wink.

"Or a mage," piped in Aicantar. He thought the conversation might take his mind off the impending battle.

"Nothing could have saved those Stormcloaks," said Ondolemar with a shake of his head. "Now I'm sure none of you are experts in tactics and strategy, but even a dull Orc could have planned that better. It was one straight path up to the city gates, and all that stood between the Stormcloaks and victory was a shield wall of Legion soldiers. Wave after wave of poorly armoured, poorly trained hateful Nords broke on that wall. Whiterun archers fired unhindered. Fire and ice cut through their ranks from Imperial battlemages. It was a massacre." For a moment, Aicantar thought that Ondolemar would show some sorrow for the dead, but Ondolemar only smiled. "It was beautiful."

"I thought the Thalmor haven't taken a side in the war," said Ghorza.

"They haven't officially, but… well, tell me, Aicantar, as an elf, would you sympathise with the Imperials or Stormcloaks?"

"The Imperials, of course. The Stormcloaks despise all races except Nords."

"There's your answer, madam Orc," said Ondolemar with a smirk.

A couple of hours march brought the army to the deepest part of the chasm where the road met the Karth River and branched in two directions. Directly ahead, across the river, a third mountain loomed, casting a shadow into the valley. The mountains leered over the army, and Aicantar began to understand why the roads and mountains were feared. Only the fearful and ill-protected villages were under the control of the Jarl. The deep valleys, towering mountains and the dark ruins and forts of the Reach lay under the grasp of the Forsworn. Aicantar stood with one of the largest armies in the hold, but under the shadow of silent mountains he still felt vulnerable and scared.

The army turned right and marched onwards into the bowels of the Reach. It was yet gloomier by the time the back of the army reached the turning, but as Aicantar stared at the dark mass of rock in front of him, the mist thinned for a moment. Dark walls and pillars winked at him amongst densely packed trees. Bushy vines wrapped around every surface. Aicantar thought maybe he was mistaking an unusual outcrop for something else, but he caught glimpses of curving porches and overgrown steps. It was a building for sure, but it wasn't Dwemer, Nordic or Imperial. It had an exotic, ancient aura, and Aicantar knew that whatever the palace was for, it deserved solemn respect.

Aicantar thought of the ancient grey palace as the army followed the Karth River towards Karthspire. Several tributaries flowed into the river, and each time the rivers met, the army would have to cross a squat stone bridge. The water pouring from the mountains drenched the army in spray, and even Ondolemar lost a touch of his authoritarian look as his robes hung heavy and his hair stuck to his face. The sky glowed red as dusk settled, and the long day of marching had taken its toll on Aicantar. He was wet, tired and every muscle in his body burned with fatigue. He still refused to complain. Those around him were wearing down, but they were much more used to long marches and hard work, and Aicantar would not let them see him as weak. The blisters on his feet grew worse, and his breathing grew heavier as the march dragged ever onward.

"Here, have some of this," said Ondolemar, pulling a silver flask from his robes. He pushed it into Aicantar's hands. Aicantar popped the cap open and sniffed the contents. A sweet smell fluttered up his nose, and he frowned in confusion.

"Drink it," said Ondolemar. "It will help."

Aicantar raised the flask to his lips and gulped down a mouthful. It was sweet and perfumed. He rather liked it. He closed the flask and handed it back to Ondolemar with his thanks. "What is it?"

"A simple potion to restore stamina. It's made of honey and mountain flowers, and it's a great way to make a long march more bearable," said Ondolemar with a smile. Strands of blonde, almost white hair stuck out from under his hood, and his cut jaw ended with a dusting of hair on his chin. His cheeks were shadowed by his protruding cheekbones, and it looked like his features had been carved by a sculptor.

Aicantar was going to ask more questions about Ondolemar's knowledge of alchemy, but he noticed something strange. They were once again crossing a bridge, but this was different. While the others had all been built in the same, squat ugly style, this was flowing and artistic. A decorated shelter that hung with ivy covered their crossing. It was made with flicks and curves, not he harsh angles of Imperial design. It was the same architecture as the mountain palace.

"Who built this?" he asked, almost to himself.

"The ancient Akaviri," replied Ondolemar with a smile. "It means we're here."

* * *

Aicantar rubbed a bitter smelling, brown salve into his blisters with a wince. One of the kinder healers had saved some stock for those at the back of the march, and he couldn't tell if it was a prank or genuine help. The salve smelt liked smoke and dirt, and he couldn't feel it doing anything yet. He resigned to trusting the healer by finishing the salve treatment and gingerly sliding his boots back on. Night had truly fallen on the Reach, but the darkness was pierced by two dozen cooking fires amongst a sea of canvas tents. Once passed the Akaviri bridge, Thongvor Silver-Blood had ordered the army to set up camp along the roadside. They had the river to their left and a steep cliff to their right. It was as safe as anywhere in the Reach.

"Do you see them?" asked Ghorza, staring passed the firelight.

"Who? The Forsworn?" asked Tacitus, trying his best to find where Ghorza was staring.

"Mm-hmm," she grunted, resting her chin in her lap, with her knees brought up to her chest. "Just sit and watch for a bit. You'll see them eventually."

The group sat in silence, staring into the distance. Even the Thalmor joined in with the game. After several minutes, voices began to pipe up. One of the Elven soldiers let out an involuntary gasp. "I thought that was the trees," he whispered.

Aicantar leaned forward and squinted, and all of a sudden it became clear. What looked like a grove of trees in the distance, through which the stars twinkled, was another encampment. The stars were campfires, dozens if not a hundred of them. They all flickered in the shadows of at least a thousand people rushing around the encampment. It was a hive of insects, and their tireless scurrying carried on until Aicantar looked away and caught his eyes in their own campfire. He knew his eyes wouldn't adjust to the darkness again.

"There are so many of them," said Aicantar. "So many more than us. Are we sure we can win this?"

"Don't worry, Elf," said Ghorza. "We have strong men and strong steel on our side. One of our men are worth ten of theirs. What can furs and bone spears do against a Nord in steel?"

"I wouldn't be so sure," said Ondolemar slyly.

"And what do you know of armour, mage?" spat Ghorza.

"It is not the armour I'm arguing, you stupid Orc. I know the difference between fur and steel. Do not insult me like that again," he said with fire in his eyes and fury in his throat. Ghorza gnashed her tusks at him but did not provoke him further. "My point is that both armies fight for very different things. The Silver-Blood soldiers fight because they're paid well. The Forsworn fight for their freedom, their identity and their very existence. Do not underestimate what desperation can do to people. How do you think Briarhearts and Hagravens came to be?"

"Do you think there'll be Briarhearts and Hagravens there?" asked Tacitus with wide eyes.

"Briarhearts almost certainly, but they aren't anything to worry about. They're powerful warriors and can be powerful mages, but they're still men with a large seed for a heart. Hagravens, however… officially they were wiped out, but I'm not so sure." Ondolemar turned very serious and grabbed Aicantar's shoulders. He pulled the young Elf toward him and stared into his eyes, their noses almost touching. "If there's a Hagraven, then it is my duty to kill it. No man with a sword or shield could ever get close enough to swing at it. It has to be a mage. Aicantar, promise me. If we find a Hagraven, you run. You run straight away and you do not think of anyone but yourself."

"I promise," said Aicantar, taken aback by this sudden change in Ondolemar. He did not think that the Elf cared so much.

"You must understand, if you see a Hagraven and you do not run, then you will die."

"I understand," said Aicantar, pushing Ondolemar away. He frowned as the older Elf stared at him with something strange in his bright green eyes. "You don't trust me at all, do you?" said Aicantar. "Why did you bring me here if you didn't think I could fight?"

"Aicantar, Hagravens-"

"This isn't about Hagravens. You're the mighty Thalmor Justiciar, and I'm just a court wizard's nephew. You don't think I can look after myself _at all_ ," he said with pain in his voice. Even Aicantar didn't understand why this hurt him so much, but he was too worked up to stop now.

Ondolemar face was hard. He had little time for such emotions "Aicantar, I haven't seen your abilities, and you fainted after killing one man. Forgive me for being cautious."

"Then let me prove myself," said Aicantar defiantly.

"How do you intend to do that?" asked Ondolemar. He couldn't help but sound condescending.

Aicantar was silent. He felt embarrassed after his tantrum, but the long march had worn him down past the point of civility. He hated that Ondolemar was right. He sighed and shook his head.

During Ondolemar's time in the Thalmor, he'd trained many young mages, but they'd all been full of fire and talent. These outbursts weren't uncommon, but with Aicantar it came from a different place. He was a scared boy, way over his head on the eve of battle.

"You want to prove yourself? Fine. Stand up," Ondolemar said, pushing himself off the log he was sitting on.

"Why?" asked Aicantar.

"Do not argue with me. I told you to stand up, so you will stand," he said with a clenched jaw. If he had little time for emotional outbursts, then he certainly had none for insolence.

Aicantar stood up and furrowed his brow. There were murmurs amongst the present Thalmor. They knew what was coming, but Tacitus and Ghorza had the same look as Aicantar.

"We are going to duel. It's perfectly safe, but it lets me see what you can do, and it'll give you some practice before the battle." Ondolemar kicked the log he had been sitting on away from the fire and beckoned for everyone to do the same. Aicantar hesitantly rolled his log away and stood facing Ondolemar, his fingers twitching. Ghorza and Tacitus hesitantly rose from the damp ground and stepped away from the fire, their faces barely visible at the edge of the firelight. The Thalmor agent and the four soldiers moved miscellaneous debris and created a ring around the fire. It was Aicantar and Ondolemar alone in the arena.

"Stand still," said Ondolemar with a mischievous look. Roaring flames shone in his green eyes, and Aicantar couldn't help but feel intimidated by the tall Elf. The right side of his face was lit by fire and his left was hidden in shadows. Strands of hair fluttered in the light breeze, and the fire found dimples and cheekbones as Ondolemar smiled, baring sparkling teeth. Green, ethereal light materialised around his fingertips and swam like fish between his fingers and up his arm. Like a glowing shroud, they grew and draped themselves over Ondolemar who let the cloth find its way around his whole body until he himself glowed with a thin sheen of magic. A second later and Aicantar was wrapped in the same magical cloth. It was cool and calming as it soaked into his skin, and suddenly he felt a lot more at ease.

"That was a shield spell, used by all who train magic with the Thalmor. Spells should not cause any serious harm, but my magic can only protect us from so much. I assume you know at least basic wards and healing spells?" He asked with a cocked brow. Aicantar nodded in affirmation. Ondolemar allowed himself the briefest of sadistic smiles before whipping his arm up at Aicantar as if throwing a stone. From his palm, a ball of glowing orange flames spun out into the night, its sparking tendrils licking the cold air as it spiralled like an arrow towards Aicantar's chest. The force of impact knocked him to the ground, and his head hit the damp earth with a thud. The flames spread across his blue robes, and he raised his hand to smack out the fire, but it died as fast as it began. Apart from slight singes to his robes, the spell had done nothing.

"The first rule of duelling is to give away _nothing_ ," said Ondolemar as he leered over Aicantar. Without my protection, that could've caused some damage. Any spell more powerful than that would likely kill you." He reached out a golden hand which Aicantar grabbed with a grunt, and Ondolemar hoisted him to his feet. Aicantar's back and hair were now matted in mud.

"I wasn't ready," said Aicantar with a bitterness in his voice. His ego had taken a bigger hit than his chest.

"You had infinitely more warning than in a real duel. We stood facing each other in an open arena, chatting about magic. You should have already had an offense in one hand and a ward in the other. Tomorrow, no Hagraven or hedge wizard will ask if you're ready before plunging a shard of ice through your heart." Ondolemar walked away from Aicantar back towards the far end of the field.

Aicantar stood in the firelight, wet, muddy and singed. He was keenly aware that Tacitus and Ghorza were watching the display. He wasn't going to let that humiliation go quickly. With a sharp flick of his wrist, bolts of crackling blue electricity snapped from each fingertip. The lightning filled Aicantar's nostrils with the cool, sweet smell of a stormy night. His brows furrowed as the lightning cracked towards Ondolemar's exposed back. Faster than Aicantar thought was possible, Ondolemar's hand had caught the spell in a translucent blue ball that shimmered like water on the underside of a bridge. The Elf hadn't even turned around. He brought the lightning around to his face, admiring how the cage rippled with each tendril of lightning that touched it. He slowly turning around and looked into Aicantar's eyes, holding the spell in an open hand in front of him.

"It's a cowardly cheap trick to strike an opponent in his back," he said with a stern look. He clenched his hand into a fist, and the sphere exploded into a thousand tiny shards, and the lightning fizzled away. "Those kinds of tactics are devoid of honour, and those kinds of tricks are exactly what you'll need to win a duel." He cracked a knowing smile. Aicantar couldn't help but smile back. "Very few duels are won with honour. They are cruel, brutal, fast and dirty. Any mage who duels must be so too. Hit my again."

Aicantar took a deep breath and swung his arm round, bowling a large ball of flame at Ondolemar. It was twice the size as the one that Ondolemar had thrown at him, but it flew through the air a fraction of a second slower. Just slow enough for Ondolemar to raise a glittering ward. Like light bouncing off a shimmering pond, a great shield of glittering blue magic sliced through the air between the firebolt and Ondolemar. The flames collapsed upon the ward and had barely fizzled away before Ondolemar had launched his own assault in the form of a shard of white ice sharpened to a razor point. Aicantar was ready with his own ward, and the ice shattered upon it, showering the ground in glittering shards.

This assault continued back and forth several times, with no side gaining an advantage. Both Elves could feel the wards draining their Magicka, and so both were loath to increase the power of their spells. The ground was scorched from fire and lightning, and their shoulders and hair were dusted in tiny ice fragments. In the end, both their wards collapsed under the strain of magic, with Aicantar being forced to drop his several spells before Ondolemar. Luckily, he had fast enough reflexes to avoid the remaining spells.

"What do I do in a real duel?" Aicantar asked, breathing heavily. Both elves had stopped casting, and Aicantar was drenched in sweat. Ondolemar, meanwhile, looked like he was just beginning. "That kind of deadlock can only last so long."

"Most duels are made of that kind of battle. Almost all mages use wards, and so the trick is not to break you enemy's ward but to make sure they use up their magic reserves before you do. Wards will always be magically taxing, but you can control how much power goes into them. With time, you'll learn to guess the power of your opponents spell and adjust your ward accordingly," said Ondolemar.

"But what if we're both out of magic, or what if I don't have enough magic left to cast a killing blow?" Aicantar said, wiping his forehead and straightening up. His chest shook with the exertion of bringing his breathing under control.

"Some duels end with a spell. Some end with a blade," Ondolemar said. His hand once again shot out towards Aicantar, but this time it was a golden curved dagger that flew towards him. Aicantar gasped. His chest felt like wit would explode. He closed his eyes and put his hands in front of him. He heard Tacitus shout, but the impact never came. He creaked his eyes open to see a faint green shield in between himself and the dagger, which itself was slowly rotating in the air. Aicantar collapsed his shield, and with a laugh Ondolemar drew the dagger back to him and caught it in mid-air. He twirled it around his fingers as he spoke.

"A projected armour spell? That's not too easy to do. It probably wouldn't have stopped the dagger, but it may well have slowed it down enough to save your life."

"That's what I was going for," Aicantar choked out before slumping himself onto the ground. He lay on his back, staring at the sky. He pathetically swatted the air to signal that the duel was over.

Ondolemar walked over to Aicantar and leaned over him, a curious look on his face. "You're an ungraceful, ill-trained young elf, but that was some quick spellcasting and even quicker thinking. With a _lot_ of training you might be a half decent Thalmor agent."

A laugh forced its way from Aicantar's mouth so hard that it made him choke. He lay on his side spluttering into the grass as Ondolemar stepped back in disgust. It took several seconds, but Aicantar once again looked up as he wiped a tear away from his eye.

"I will never be a Thalmor. No Elf born outside of the Dominion can be."

"That's true, but there are loopholes to slip through and small print to ignore. Your stubborn uncle will never die, nor give up on his work. You'll be the court wizard's nephew forever unless you take control." He reached into a pocket inside his robes and pulled out a delicate, pale blue bottle the size of his thumb. He crouched down and pressed it into Aicantar's hand. A spark of residual magic flicked between the two, making Aicantar jump, but Ondolemar grabbed his hand and held it tight. "Drink all of it. It will help you regain some of your Magicka."

* * *

Aicantar lay motionless in his wet tent at the edge of the camp. Every fibre of his body screamed when he moved, and his limbs were dead with exhaustion, yet he could not sleep. His hair was till matted with mud and sweat, and he had resigned to pulling it back into a stinking, once-blonde bun. With every breath, the rancid smell of his body assaulted him, and his nausea grew by the minute. He didn't know people could smell this bad, yet he was trapped in a canvas prison with his own stench. His tent barely had enough for his thin straw bedroll, and was disappointed to find nowhere to hang his soiled robes, thus they lay in a crumpled pile, soaking up the night dew. Every time he moved, a fresh shower of freezing water dripped onto him, causing him to hiss with discomfort. Many hours had dragged on in this state, lying awake in the false warmth of the lantern that gently swung from the tent pole. No one told him that leaving Markarth would be this miserable.

A tent flap opened nearby. Wet canvas flapped in the wind for several seconds then suddenly stopped. Soft footfalls pattered the damp ground, coming closer. Aicantar groaned as he sat up to better hear the sounds. His hair brushed the roof of the tent, causing more water to soak his face. He wiped it away as whoever was out there stopped right outside his tent. He held his breath, hoping that the person would pass.

"Good, you're awake," said a Tacitus as he threw open Aicantar's tent flap. The swift movement caused Aicantar to jump, knocking the lantern which swung wildly.

"What in Oblivion are you doing?" he asked, pulling the itchy blanket over him.

"Ghorza's too big for both of us to fit in that tent. And she snores," he said while looking around the tent. His wet curls dangled in front of his eyes, and raindrops ran down his tanned skin. Dew glittered on his eyelashes, and his sea blue eyes sparkled in the light of the lantern. Aicantar couldn't help but notice that Tacitus was only dressed in a pair of button-down breeches that stopped at his knees. "It smells in here."

"You try fighting in a duel without breaking a sweat," said an embarrassed Aicantar.

"It's alright, I don't smell that great myself," said Tacitus while clambering into the tent.

"Hey, you don't actually think I'm going to let you sleep in here?" said Aicantar with wide eyes.

Tacitus lay himself down on the straw mattress, his arms clasped behind his head as a pillow. "You're not going to turn me away into the cold night, are you?"

The two men stared at each other, and Tacitus rolled onto his side, raising his brows and pouting his lips in a dramatized plea for sympathy. Aicantar huffed and slammed his head onto his pillow.

"No, I'm not."

Tacitus' face exploded into a brilliant smile, and he lay back down. "Did it hurt?"

"Did what hurt?" asked Aicantar, turning his back to Tacitus.

"The duel. It looked brutal, I've never seen anything like it," said Tacitus, staring at Aicantar's smooth yellow back. Shoulder blades pierced his thin frame.

"Honestly, I have never ached like this in my life. No one has every pushed my magic to that extreme."

"Can't you use more magic to heal yourself?"

Aicantar sighed and rolled over to look at Tacitus. "I could, but it'll waste even more magic that could save my life tomorrow. My Magicka probably won't fully regenerate in time as it is." There was a moments silence as Aicantar stared into Tacitus' eyes. "We should probably go to sleep," he said softly.

Tacitus smiled weakly and closed his eyes as both men rolled onto their backs.

"You're taking up most of the tent," said Aicantar. "But at least it's warmer." He paused for a brave moment. "I think I'll find it easier sleep now."

* * *

Ondolemar sat in a hard chair with a mug of wine clutched in his right hand. His left massaged his temple. Muddy and worn robes had been replaced with a midnight blue kimono that draped across his yellow skin, allowing a wedge of smooth yellow chest to glow in the firelight. The smoke from the embers drifted through a hole in the marquee's roof, and the room was bathed in a faded red glow.

He winced as he finally gave in and allowed a golden stream of healing magic to flow from his fingers and into his skull. He would never admit it to anyone, but Markarth had made him soft. A day's march and an amateur duel should not make his head and body ache so much. His vision was filled with the warm tendrils of Restoration magic, and the pain seeped away. With a sigh of relief, he cut his flow of magic and looked round his marquee. A worn and nearly rotten bed and dresser sat on a heavy red rug in the corner. Opposite was a small desk littered with writing equipment. A single tent pole stuck through the centre, holding the roof aloft. It wasn't much, but in a Nord war camp it was the height of luxury.

"Ondolemar," commanded a deep, rough voice outside the tent. Ondolemar flinched, and a single drop of ruby wine soaked into his gown.

"You may enter," he said, pulling his gown tighter as he stood up.

The tent flap opened, and Thongvor Silver-Blood marched into the warmth, his balding head creased with frown lines, and a sour look twisted his hard face.

"It is late, Silver-Blood," he said simply. He gestured towards his desk without breaking eye contact. "But may I offer you some wine?"

"No, I have no time for elven games," he said, taking a seat in Ondolemar's chair.

"Where I am from, it's simply called 'etiquette'," he said, grasping his mug with both hands while leaning on the tent pole. "But no matter." He stared down at Thongvor, who in turn grimaced at Ondolemar. In his ploy at power play, Thongvor had given Ondolemar the height advantage, and the elf was secretly quite pleased with the small advantage. "I am tired, and I wish to be left in peace. Whatever questions you have, I will do my best to answer. Whatever you want me to do, I will endeavour to see accomplished. I have no quarrel, but I also have little patience."

"Why are you here, Elf?" Thongvor asked.

"Because Jarl Igmund asked me to," he said simply.

Thongvor shook his head and spat into the fire, which hissed in indignation. "I thought you weren't going to play games. No Thalmor, let alone _you,_ does anything because a Nord, even a Jarl, asks. Tell me the goddamn truth." Blue eyes burned with hatred, and his fists clenched his brown, quilted jacket.

Ondolemar sighed. "You won't like it."

"I already don't like it."

"For whatever reason, Jarl Igmund is extremely anxious to see this battle go our way, and like a true Nord, you don't have any mages in your army. Hagravens and briarhearts can do huge damage to those unprepared. Jarl Igmund sent me to counter their magic and do some damage of my own," he said.

"And the part that I won't like?" he asked, rising slowly from his chair. He was an imposing, battle hardened Nord. His frame was much larger than that of Ondolemar's, but the elf was still taller.

"As you rightly pointed out, I do not serve the whim of Jarl Igmund, so he made me a deal I couldn't refuse." There was a moments silence as Thongvor took a step towards Ondolemar. "He gave me the Shrine of Talos."

Thongvor swore loudly and swung around. He kicked the chair to the ground and let out a deep shout before wheeling back and facing Ondolemar once more, his chest heaving, his fists clenched and his teeth gritted. He leaned forward and jabbed a meaty finger at the elf. For Ondolemar's part, he did not move an inch.

"You snake. You and Igmund. How could he hand over a sacred-"

"Careful, Nord," said Ondolemar with a threatening hiss. "One more word like that, and the Dominion will brand you a heretic. Your whole damn family is on thin ice as it is, and not even Thongvor Silver-Blood is beyond my reach." He pushed himself away from the support pole and faced Thongvor with an ominous calm.

Thongvor wanted to hurt him, and Ondolemar knew it. A sadistic part of him wanted to push Thongvor as far as possible, but he refused to give in. He was surrounded by his army after all.

"It wasn't so long ago that I spilt gallons of eleven blood in the Great War," Thongvor said with a grimace and hateful eyes. "My axe carved up so many of your kin, and Skyrim yearns for more. One day, when Ulfric Stormcloak is High King, we'll be on opposite sides of a battlefield, and I will sniff you out and cut my way through every elf in between my axe and your throat."

Ondolemar couldn't help it. "I remember those battles too. Young Nords threw themselves at me like you're gagging to, but they never got close. Steel armour does the same job as a kettle, you know? The smell of men boiling inside their kettles is something I will not forget, and the sound they made as they screamed for a mercy that I would not give… you're right, Silver-Blood, that war will come again, and I look forward to it."

Thongvor raised a hand to strike Ondolemar down, but Ondolemar caught it. He dragged Thongvor towards him and pressed their foreheads together. The mug left his hand, and he could feel red wine run down his naked torso. Thongvor's vision was filled only with the snake-green eyes of the Thalmor.

"But!" shouted Ondolemar, spittle flying from his mouth. "That day is not here. Tomorrow, as much as we might loathe it, we are on the same side. Control yourself, Silver-Blood, because you need my magic to win this battle," he said. He wheeled them both around and slammed Thongvor into the tent pole, causing the whole structure to shake. "Jarl Igmund is right to be anxious, and he was right to send me. After we slaughter those animals, you may never have to see me again."

Thongvor pushed Ondolemar away, and they stood glaring. Ondolemar hastily closed his unravelled gown and stood tall, refusing to back down from the stalemate. Thongvor had come too close to losing control, and Ondolemar prayed that he would leave. His prayer was answered. With one last phlegm onto the ground, Thongvor fled from the tent in a rage. Ondolemar could hear him hitting and kicking everything in his way, and his brutal Nord shouts echoed into the night.

With a deep sigh of relief, he gently picked up his chair and sprawled himself onto it. His robe unravelled itself once more, but he did not bother to do it back up. He groaned as he lamented the distance between him and the carafe of wine. His headache had returned.


	4. Four

Aicantar blinked open crusted eyes as faint red light seeped through the brown canvas. His head felt groggy with exhaustion, and the aches had deepened. He watched as a dew dropped raced down the tent, glittering in the morning light, and he found himself drifting back to sleep, the warmth of the morning hugging him tight. He daren't breathe as he felt Tacitus next to him, his body radiating heat. His warm breath tickled the back of Aicantar's neck. As if on cue, the rest of the camp began to wake up, and the shuffle of canvas and the clang of armour echoed through the encampment. They were soon accompanied by deep voices grumbling past his tent and the sound of an army beginning the day. He tensed as he felt Tacitus move and lay still as the Imperial shifted his head and rolled his body away from him. In a flash, he felt Tacitus sit bolt upright. Feigning being awoken by the movement, Aicantar rolled over and let out a long yawn, his eyes clenched shut. Opening them, he found Tacitus staring down at him. Curly hair splayed in all directions, and his eyes drooped with tiredness.

"Good morning," said Aicantar as light heartedly as he could muster.

"Morning," said Tacitus. He cast his sleepy blue eyes around the lit tent. "I… I need to go," he said slowly. "Ghorza will be wondering where I am." Yet he did not move. Instead, he stared back down at Aicantar's anticipatory green eyes.

"Then you better go," said Aicantar with an encouraging smile.

Tacitus shook his head, gently bouncing his golden curls. "I don't think I want to. I know what's going to happen out there. So many people are going to die. So much blood will be spilt."

"You're not fighting, Tacitus, you'll be safe," said Aicantar,

"But you are. I know Ondolemar will be with you, but you'll still be out there on the battlefield. This…" he trailed off, choking back what he wanted to say. "Please don't die."

"I promise that I will do everything I can to stay alive," said Aicantar, trying his best at humour, but his own anxieties were poking through.

Tacitus pathetically tried to smile, but his face wouldn't let him. Neither of them knew what to say next. Tacitus' small nose wrinkled in a sniff, and water brewed under blue irises. Aicantar could see every detail of his soft tanned face, and then it was gone. Tacitus turned away with a sad sigh. He looked away from Aicantar and choked.

"Please. Please come back." He couldn't bear to look back as he slid out of the tent. Aicantar's last glimpse was of matted curls and broad shoulders before he was gone.

* * *

Breakfast in Understone Keep was a quiet affair. No conversation filled the incensed haze, and only the hum of Dwemer pipes, the panting of dogs and the clang of pots could be heard. The high table was all that occupied the top of the hall, and those eating stared down the expanse of the smoky Dwemer palace. The stone stairs carved downwards into the hall proper, and behind them the copper and gold Mournful Throne sat vacant upon its podium.

Jarl Igmund unconsciously tapped a silver fork upon the cold stone of the high table. A lightly nibbled bowl of Skyrim fruits lay on a plate before him. He loathed the hard pears and sour berries, but Faleen insisted that they were good for his health, so he humoured her with a few small bites. While he waited for the meat of the breakfast to arrive, he studied the empty room. Dwemer monsters leered from every corner of the room and from posts guarding the stairs. Their soulless faces and twisted limbs made every newcomer to the Keep wince as they first lay eyes upon the automatons, as if they were going to spring to life and kill an intruder. As a child, Jarl Igmund often thought the automatons could move, and even as a teenager he wondered if his father was spying on him through their empty eyes. Now, they gave him some comfort. He liked to think of them as his guardians. A gift from the long-dead Dwarves.

To his left, Faleen silently glared at his unfinished plate of fruit while finishing off her own. Her steel armour knocked against the stone chair. She always seemed in discomfort when sitting in her armour, but she refused to take it off. To Jarl Igmund's right, his elderly uncle crunched on a cinnamon filled pastry, peppering his fur collar in golden flakes. The silence was driving him mad. Every slurp and sip echoed through his mind, but no one at the table dared speak. It was not safe to speak of the Silver-Blood crisis, but that was all they could think of.

As he daydreamed, a cold wet nose snuffled against his hand. Ripped from his thoughts, he laughed quietly as he petted one of his shaggy grey dogs. The dog was almost the size of a wolf and had the teeth to match. It was unconditionally loyal and would protect Jarl Igmund with his life, but right now his soppy black eyes begged for scraps. Somehow, Jarl Igmund knew it would enjoy the fruit as much as he did.

The metal door of the kitchen flew open, and a small army of servants spilled out into the hall, dressed in brown clothes covered by crisp white aprons. The forefront of the horde hurriedly cleared away what was on the table, and those behind carried steaming dishes of thick sausages, platters of butter fried potatoes, steamed mushrooms, jugs of creamy sauces, fried tomatoes, racks of toast and a divine assortment of other foods. Jarl Igmund's day instantly brightened.

Jarl Igmund leaned back in his stone chair, finally satisfied. The grease and meat sat heavy in his stomach, and he decided to ignore Faleen's disgusted look. By his feet, his dog slumbered, just as content with the ample supply of sausages he had been given. Those gathered looked more relaxed after a good meal, and knowing eyes looked along the table at each other, yet they daren't speak. Once breakfast was cleared and they had retired to the war room, only then was it safe.

They so nearly made it. The last of the meal had been scooped up by servants when the vast metal doors of Understone Keep could be heard grinding open. Guards nervously mouthed greetings of respect as two figures drifted through the thick haze and glided up the stone steps. Jarl Igmund sat straight in his stone chair and looked down with disdain as Thonar and Betrid Silver-Blood approached the table.

Thonar was shorter than his brother, Thongvor, but what he lacked in stature he made up for with wit and intelligence. Lines creased his pale, balding head, and thin grey hairs sprouted from his crown. Pale piercing eyes poked holes into everyone gathered as he assessed the room in an instant. Thick brown robes slapped across the grey stairs, and a high collar tickled his cheeks. No jewels adorned him except an intricate silver ring on his left hand with an opal cut into the shape of a dagger.

Next to her husband, Betrid glittered with wealth and finery. A dusky velvet dress clung to her curves, and a coat of brown bear pelt hung off her shoulders. A delicate tiara of gold and topaz was wrapped in her yellow hair which was pinned and platted into an elaborated bun that sat atop her head. White pearl flowers wove between her strands, and a single diamond the size of a grape glittered on her finger. Her pale face was rouged and painted with red lips and pink eyes. She truly was the beauty of Markarth.

"I am afraid the court is not yet in session," said Jarl Igmund, refusing to stand. His faded green robes and matted fur collar did not survive the jury of the Silver-Blood's finery.

"I was hoping we might join you for breakfast, but it looks like the Jarl dines earlier than us common folk," said Thonar with arms crossed and a sweeping look of the table. His brows were raised in a façade of disappointment.

"Such arrangements must be discussed beforehand and approved at my discretion," bit Jarl Igmund.

"Even for Silver-Bloods? I doubt that. And I see your Reachman servants are incapable of finding us chairs," he said. As if he had cast a spell, two servants appeared, dragging hard wooden chairs across the hall. They placed them directly opposite Jarl Igmund and Faleen. The Silver-Bloods lowered themselves into their chairs, and Betrid raised her right hand. She had barely clicked her smooth fingers before tea and pastries were presented before them. They never broke eyes with the Jarl.

"And why has the Silver-Blood family graced me with their company?" asked Jarl Igmund as he grabbed the pot of tea before Thonar had the chance. He made every effort to drag out the process of pouring tea.

"We simply desire the company," said Betrid in a high, lyrical voice. Lady Sungard's face was stone.

"May I be privy to the truth?" asked Jarl Igmund to Thonar, utterly ignoring his wife.

"We are wondering why Faleen sees fit to change the guard schedule without consulting me," he said with a sneer. His eyes wrinkled with displeasure.

Jarl Igmund poured a drop of milk into his tea and didn't mutter a word as he stirred the brown brew. Finally, he looked up. "You put him up to this, didn't you?" he asked, staring directly at Betrid. She only pursed her lips into a thin smile, pushing her rouged cheeks up onto the high cheekbones. "Faleen is Captain of the Guard. She does as she sees fit."

"Then change the schedule back. I feel safer when I know who is patrolling where," said Thonar, finally getting his chance to pour his own tea.

Jarl Igmund cast a glance to Faleen before leaning across the table towards Thonar. "The next schedule shall be sent directly to you for your approval, such as it is," he said with all the grace he could muster.

"Make sure you do," said Thonar with squinted eyes. "Else I might have to take this as a personal defiance against my family."

Jarl Igmund smiled coldly and leant back in her chair. Thonar did the same and turned to look towards his wife. "I believe our business here is done. We should head back to the Treasury House."

"I'll catch up with you, Thonar," Betrid said, placing a hand on his forearm. "I would like a word with my mother." Betrid stood up and looked over at Lady Sungard who gave only a cold stare in response. Thonar stood from the table, and no pleasantries were shared before he trotted down the stone steps. Lady Sungard slowly stood from the table, brushing down her simple blue gown. Her grey bun quivered atop her head. Betrid once more clicked at the servants, and a grey fur coat was found for her mother. Lady Sungard slipped the thick coat over her wiry frame and hesitantly drifted around the table, casting a glance at Jarl Igmund. Her daughter held out an arm, and lady Sungard linked it with her own. Not another word was spoken as the two women disappeared into the smoke.

"You enjoyed that," said Faleen.

"I always do," said Jarl Igmund. He didn't even like tea.

* * *

The morning was cold and wet, just like the night had been. A soft mist lay above the sodden grass that was quickly becoming mud under the beating of hundreds of boots. Nords in steel plate and chainmail ran about the camp as commanders shouted orders and curses. Tents lay trampled and abandoned, and even louder shouts were heard in the distance. Aicantar stood frozen in the chaos, his tattered robes draped once more over his aching body. He was painfully aware of how ill prepared he was. He was a lanky Elf with no armour and no weapon, and they were a hoard of hulking Nords armed with shields, swords and axes, glittering in metal shells and emblazoned with the burning red and glimmering silver of the Silver-Blood family. Aicantar's eyes drifted above the mass of tents where a dozen waving banners marked the sky. It was the phalanx, and they were preparing to move out.

"Aicantar!" A loud voice called as he skittered between tents and soldiers. Aicantar came skidding to a halt and desperately looked around. "Aicantar!" The voice called again, and he suddenly caught the eye of Ondolemar who stood at the entrance of a large brown marquee. Aicantar swung out the way of a battalion of Nords as they raced passed him before leaping across the path towards Ondolemar.

"What do you think you're doing?" the older Elf asked with folded arms.

"Joining the soldiers," said Aicantar bashfully. Ondolemar's robes had been reinforced with golden chainmail greaves, and Elven plate covered his hands and feet. Instead of his usual dark hood, a helmet hugged his cheeks, and two pointed wings protruded from his ears.

"Not dressed like that you're not," said Ondolemar. "Come inside."

The tent fabric muffled the sounds outside, and a strange calm filled the canvas. Ondolemar's ever-present guard stood cold and golden. Up close, the exquisite detail of their armour could be seen. Hundreds of perfect metal feathers covered pauldrons and greaves, and golden plates slid seamlessly over each other as their chests and legs moved.

"Obviously I couldn't have anything made for you, but I managed to scavenge together a few pieces," said Ondolemar while opening a draw with his back turned to Aicantar. Turning around, he passed folded midnight robes to Aicantar. It was heavier than he expected, and under inspection he found the quilted fabric reinforced with metal studs and chain links hidden under thick leather. "It's light enough for you to move freely, but it will offer you some protection."

Aicantar bowed with gratitude and bashfully pulled off his robes. Ondolemar did not avert his eyes. Aicantar pulled on the new robes which fit surprisingly well, and he tied the waist with a golden sash. The Thalmor motifs did not go unnoticed.

"You're as ready as you'll ever be," said Ondolemar with a frown. Reaching behind the tent pole, he pulled out a short mace and gave it a few quick swings. Its body was made of a simple iron rod, but four vicious wings of yellow moonstone sat at its tip. From the right angle, the weapon could bludgeon a man's skull or pierce right through it. "Just in case," said Ondolemar with a cruel grin.

* * *

The Gardens of Dibella were doused in a thick flowery perfume that drifted lazily through the cloisters. It was undoubtedly the most beautiful place in the city, the only place in which beautiful flowers bloomed all year amongst the cold stone cobbles and pillars. In the mild autumn months, white and orange crocuses crammed ceramic flower beds, and white blossoms swung from climbing ivy. The few lingering bees buzzed drunkenly from flower to flower, desperately gathering the last of the nectar before the winter to come.

Betrid Silver-Blood stopped to admire a particularly healthy group of flowers, slipping out of her mother's arm and crouching low to the stone floor. "I do so love it here," said Betrid almost wistfully.

"Then why didn't you stay?" asked Lady Sungard, watching her daughter with folded arms.

Betrid's soft laugh cut through the air. "The life of a priestess was never for me. You should have known that before trying to lock me in that temple."

"No, your eyes were set on silver and jewels. At whatever cost," said Lady Sungard, clenching her jaw.

Betrid picked a delicate white flower and clutched it to her chest as she turned to face her mother. "Mother, I did not ask you here to be nasty."

"It broke my heart to see my only daughter marrying our enemy. The last shred of dignity this family had was lost that day," said Lady Sungard.

"And am I to blame for that? Tell me, mother, will we winter at Fort Sungard this year, or is there still a pest problem?"

"You know that's not fair, Betrid,' said Lady Sungard.

"No, what's not fair is punishing me for finding a life you nor father could provide. We lost everything, and I found a way to get it back for myself. I do not care what bad blood there is between you and my family, I'm not a part of it," said Betrid, smiling brightly.

"Your family? _Your_ family? You may have taken their name, but you are not a Silver-Blood. Pure Sungard blood runs through your veins, and that can never change." Lady Sungard's mouth pursed into a wrinkled line. "Thonar may love your pretty face and voice, but until you give him an heir, you are no Silver-Blood."

That gave Betrid something to pause over. He perfect smile drooped ever so slightly. "Oh? I see things might not be as perfect as you would want me to believe. Perhaps Thonar is already getting bored of his wife."

"Mother, may we please be civil?" asked Betrid in her sweetest voice. "I do not want to argue about these things."

"Do not give me cause to argue then," said Lady Sungard bitterly.

"Please, mother, don't. I invited you out here for a reason. I am a Silver-Blood now, and nothing you say can change that… but you are still my mother, and I do not want to see you harmed."

Concern widened Lady Sungard's lilac eyes. "What is happening, Betrid?"

"I do not know, but Thonar is planning something in Markarth, and something tells me it is not wise to be close to Jarl Igmund when the time comes."

"Betrid, you have to tell me what's going on," said Lady Sungard, her old voice cracking

"I truly don't know, you have to believe me. For months, I have tried to push Thonar to be more active, to not bow to his brother, but he never listened. Then suddenly he was in secret meetings with hooded figures, and all involvement I had in family matters ceased. This is not what I wanted Thonar to do, and it unnerves me. For him to be this active, he must be planning something big, and I do not want you to be involved," said Betrid, clutching the flower. Crushed petals drifted to the ground.

"And what about you? If there's something happening then you need to be safe too," said Lady Sungard as she rushed over to hold her daughter's cheek. "You must flee the city."

"And go where? I am sure I will be fine right here where Thonar can protect me," said Betrid with a petulant nod of her head.

"Betrid, you _must_ go," said Lady Sungard, gripping Betrid's shoulders, her nails clutching the thick fur. When she knew it was only Jarl Igmund plotting, she was certain she could protect her daughter, but now… "Keep yourself safe, dear. Do not get involved in whatever it is that Thonar is plotting. Your father is no longer around to keep us safe, but I have plans of my own. When the time is right I will make sure we are both safe."

Betrid smiled almost genuinely at her mother. "I have an appointment to get to, but we should see each other more." She held out a cheek that Lady Sungard gently kissed, and she stood with clasped hands as her daughter strolled leisurely across a stone bridge that balanced above the streets below. With a clenched jaw, she turned back towards Understone Keep. Fort Sungard would be hers again, at whatever cost.

* * *

The Karthspire glowed orange and pink against the rising sun, a thick tower of rock that sprouted from the centre of the Karth River, splitting it in two. One branch flowed swiftly through a narrow a canyon of its making. The second swam lazily in the foothill of the mountain, the only side of the island that wasn't an oppressive cliff but a field of green grass and stunted trees. The phalanx of the Silver-Blood army pushed across the wide Akaviri bridge that spanned the Karth River.

The army approached the barbaric wooden fortress. Thick tree trunks rose from the wet earth, their peaks devoid of branches and sharpened to deadly points. Their bodies were pressed together into an impenetrable wall, save for a crude wooden gate that the rough road led to.

As they drew closer, the noise of the Forsworn army began to thrum over of the march of Nord feet. Shrieks and cackles rang across the valley, and war drums beat through Aicantar's body. His legs felt weak and shaky, but he forced himself to walk towards the wooden fortress. Rows upon rows of red and silver soldiers marched in formation in front of him, and he could hear hundreds more marching behind.

The march stopped. Thongvor Silver-Blood raised his armoured hand, and horns blew through the army. With the thud of boots on rough stone, the forward lines crouched into a shield wall, their heads and bodies coiled up behind round red shields. Spears were thrust through the gaps in the wall with a united grunt.

Ondolemar took stock. The braying of the Forsworn was growing louder by the second, yet none could be seen. The wall had no walkways, no ramparts. The entire army lay just beyond the gate. To their left was the steep grey cliff of the Karthspire, unfeeling and unclimbable. To their right, the road gave way to the dull marshy banks of the Karth River. Ondolemar frowned.

With another burst of horns, the line in front of Aicantar began to part. The shield wall held tight, but now a path led directly to a gate. It was down this aisle that Ondolemar and his agent strode confidently with their golden soldiers striding in front of them with shields aloft. Aicantar did not know what was happening, but he felt it his duty to follow. As they walked, they could feel the line closing behind them, and Aicantar's heart beat faster. His stomach twisted with a sense of doom. He looked behind him and saw the Silver-Blood army winding along the riverbank and continuing onto the bridge. They filled the valley like a second river of blood. Banners fluttered amongst the men, silver ingots and daggers glittering in the weak sunlight that found its way past the cliff face. Thongvor rose above his army, the sun glowing off his steel armour and steel horse. He looked almost saint-like, and Aicantar began to see how he was able to control so much power.

"Focus, Aicantar," said Ondolemar, putting a gentle hand on Aicantar's shoulder. The younger elf whipped around and looked at Ondolemar. "We don't know what's on the other side of that wall. You need to focus so that you're ready for whatever comes." Aicantar nodded.

Thongvor joined Ondolemar at the head of the army, trailed by a dozen men carrying a felled tree devoid of branches. "You'd have thought they'd put up more than just some sticks," he said, staring at the rough wall. The gate was little more than a gap filled with planks of wood. Thongvor allowed himself a smile. "No matter." From his belt he pulled a goat horn and blasted two short notes. The tinny sound echoed through the valley. Two things happened in that moment. The men carrying the makeshift ram began their jog towards the flimsy gate, and the braying of the Forsworn stopped. Silence swarmed the valley as the only movement was twelve sets of legs and a fallen tree.

"I don't like that," whispered Ondolemar.

"Why did they stop?" asked Aicantar, casting a glance at the older Elf.

"I don't know," he replied, laying a hand on Aicantar's shoulder and gripping him tight.

Thongvor's horse kicked up clumps of grass, and men tightened their grip on spears, swords and axes. The ram passed the final line of soldiers and entered into the empty field. The wall towered above them, threatening to swallow them whole. Their metal boots clanked on ancient cobbles not quite buried, the sound ringing across both sides of the wall.

It was only a minute of agitated waiting before the soldiers stood at the foot of the fortifications. They stood still for a moment, bracing for an assault, but none came. Aicantar clenched his fist, allowing his magic to seep between his fingers. Ondolemar let go of Aicantar, placing his hand on the hilt of his mace. Thongvor steadied his horse and drew his sword. The ram swung at the gate. And struck.

The air left Aicantar's lungs as Oblivion opened up before him. The wall shattered under a billowing storm of fire. Orange and red flames roared into the sky and punched through the seams in the wooden palisade, splintering wood and uprooting the entire structure. The deadly assault of broiling fire and debris rushed across the field before him. The men carrying the ram were engulfed before they had a chance to save themselves. The sound shook Aicantar's head and heart, and his ears burst at the sound of the world being torn asunder. Like red clouds at sunset, the billowing inferno boiled over and rolled along the ground at incredible speed. The flaming flood pushed the remains of the wall ahead of it like a ram of its own. He fell to the ground in fear, closed his eyes ad wrapped his arms around his head.

It felt like an eternity before he finally opened his eyes to a blue shimmering shield. Ondolemar's face was black and red. His eyes streamed tears that washed rivers down his face, but Ondolemar was not looking at him. Aicantar could feel his own scorching burns, but he ignored them as he turned his head to where a green field once stood. Black smoke rose from the burning grass and debris. Red and silver bodies littered the ground, crushed under the trunks that made up the wall or burnt alive inside their armour. Shaking, he rolled over and looked back the army. Debris was strewn across the field and cut streaks of death through the army. The three lines of men behind him were all but gone, and the destruction only left scattered pockets of survivors that grew larger until the relatively unharmed bulk of the army stood in shock many lines behind.

"Get up," growled Ondolemar. Aicantar didn't move. He blinked tears away from his eyes as he watched men writhe in pain. A blazing man streaked by him, his body engulfed in flames. He fell and did not move. "Get up!" Ondolemar shouted, grabbing him. A dead horse, its armour crushed by a flying log. Blood pooled from its open mouth. Ondolemar grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. His legs couldn't hold him, and he slumped into Ondolemar's arms. "You're okay. My magic held. You need to focus, or we will all die." Aicantar blinked. The blue shimmering shield became clear. Ondolemar had cast a dome of protection around them, and by some miracle it had held back the tide of fire and wreckage. Not everyone was so lucky. His agent lay smouldering and motionless several feet away along with the charred remains of a golden guard.

"You didn't save them," said Aicantar finally, looking up at Ondolemar. His senses were returning, and his nose was filled with the smell of burning wood and burning flesh. His mouth tasted like ash.

"When the world explodes there's no time to save everyone. I did my best," he growled as he forced Aicantar to stand upright. "I saved myself. I saved you. I saved them," he said pointed to the two singed but otherwise unharmed Altmer guards. Black soot streaked the edges of the metal feathers on their armour, and their red sashes were all but gone. But they were alive. "And I saved…" he looked down at the motionless body that lay just inside the ring of protection. "Mara, no." He rushed over to Thongvor Silver-Blood, his polished armour now blackened and dented. His face was pressed into the burning earth. Ondolemar shook him. Nothing. "Oh, this is really bad," he said, rolling Thongvor over. He pressed his ear to the Nord's mouth and sighed as he felt his soft breathing.

"Ondolemar, they're coming!" screamed the female guard, drawing her sword and holding her shield high. The others did the same, placing themselves between Ondolemar and the black pillar smoke where the wall once was.

Aicantar looked back at the army. Every man stared back at him. The scattered groups and individuals that survived the blast stood alone amongst smoke and fire. The unharmed bulk of the army stood far away atop green grass and wet mud. Aicantar was alone in a burning hell. They were alone, and the Forsworn were here.

Ondolemar span around, desperately looking for a plan. For an escape. They could run. They could make it back to the army, but he glanced his eyes down at the unconscious Thongvor. The Forsworn would see him straight away and tear him apart in front of his men. The army would rout in seconds, and those who fled would die in the wilderness. He clenched his fists. He would hold them off for as long as he could. The men won't rout if they see the enemy burnt alive in revenge. A horn blasted three sharp notes in his ear. He clamped his hand to his ears and shouted in surprise and pain. Three bursts again. He whipped around and made eye contact with Aicantar who was holding a horn to his lips. Thongvor's horn. Aicantar turned to face the army, drew the deepest breath he could and let out one long, booming note. He lowered the horn, and Ondolemar felt the pleading in the young Elf's eyes.

A note returned. Long and soulful. A standard bearer holding a fluttering banner in one hand a goat horn emblazoned in gold in the other pushed his way to the front of the army. He blew again, rageful and aggressive. Over the sound of crackling fires and the approaching swarm of Forsworn, Aicantar could not hear the standard bearers' roar, but he saw it and felt it. The man raised the red banner high as he screamed. He lowered it like a lance and ran at full speed towards Oblivion. For several moments he was alone. Green grass turned burnt and dead under his feet as he charged into ruin and chaos. Dust and ash rose up underneath him as his feet pounded the ground, and black smoke and sparks choked his eyes and mouth. He kept going.

"Ondolemar!" Screamed his guard. He whipped back around, and his mind was wiped of the lone soldier. One Nord could not save him now.

The blazing ground was sputtered out by the swarm of furred and scaled boots. Men and women wrapped in the skins and furs of Reach animals pushed over each other to be first out the cloud of black smoke. Fire licked their arms and faces, but they did not feel it. They wanted blood, and they could hold back no more. With their braying at a fever pitch, the plague of beasts descended on the Elves.

Aicantar watched as the smoking debris spat out its children. The first was a hulking man that towered a foot above the rest of the army. His naked torso strained with muscle and dripped blood. Black tattoos wrapped around his arms and neck liked ivy, and blood dribbled down his chest. His eyes did not see, and his head did not turn, but his body screamed for blood and flesh. Aicantar's eyes widened as he saw the source of the bleeding. Where his beating heart should be was a chasm where his ribs had been ripped open and a spiked briar had been brutally crushed inside. Sodden rope was all that held the evil seed in place. From his mouth came a roar that shook Aicantar and frenzied the horde behind him. Spittle flew from between his yellow teeth, and the jangling of bones and teeth came from his tattered armour. Antlers protruded from his hide mask, and shredded furs clung to his thick thighs. His hands grasped two huge mammoth tusks that were sharpened into spears. He was the wild Reach made man.

"Get back," hissed Ondolemar, pulling Aicantar away from the approaching swarm. "That is a Briarheart, and he could kill you in an instant."

"His heart…" was the only thing Aicantar could manage to say.

"I know," said Ondolemar, ice pouring from his hands. "Get back!" Ondolemar pointed his arms at the Briarheart and the Forsworn army. Thick sheets of blue and white ice hurled towards the enemy, glittering with frost. It hit the ground just before the first of the swarm, and in an instant a pillar of ice sprang from the ground. An unfortunate Forsworn woman had got in the way, and now her half-frozen body was suspended several feet in the air. Only her head and right arm were free, and she wailed as her blood froze and her body went numb. Her shoulder could not take the violent waving of her arm and broke. Ondolemar continued the spell, waving his arms across the length of valley. A dozen more Forsworn were trapped by the time the woman's arm hit the floor. Before the true swarm could arrive, Ondolemar had blocked the valley with his own wall, one made of sharp, shining ice.

It didn't last long. The centre of the wall collapsed into a wave of ice water as a pillar of flame tore it down. The Briarheart smashed his way through the opening, his body wreathed in red flame as water boiled off his skin. He smashed his spears together, his muscles rippling as a stinging tendril of fire whipped at Ondolemar. The Elf grinned as he caught the fiery whip in a ward, deflecting it into the Karth River with a sizzle. The Briarheart snarled and began a sprint at Ondolemar. A spear pierced his leg. The Briarheart looked confused as he stared down at the bronze shard of metal sticking through his thigh. His blood soaked into the already crimson banner. The standard bearer grunted as he pushed the spear in deeper. The Briarheart laughed a guttural, inhuman sound and snapped the standard, leaving the point in his thigh. With a lunge, both his mammoth spears protruded through the soldier's back, and the Briarheart lifted the screaming man into the air.

The ice wall collapsed. The red wave crashed. The Forsworn had not expected a counterattack, and the braying herd were cut down by axes, swords and spears as the rallied Silver-Blood army collided with theirs. Bone could not cut through chainmail and could not shatter shields. Blood splattered onto steel armour as furs and tattooed torsos did nothing to stop the sting of blades. Fury boiled in the Nord's blood as they pushed over each other to join the slaughter.

The Briarheart stood in the centre of the wave and saw his favours turning. He would not accept death by the hands of the Nords. He ripped his spears form the torso of the now limp standard bearer and slapped the two spears together in front of him. They towered 8 feet tall, and red blood ran down their lengths, pooling around the hands of the Briarheart. With a scream, he ripped the spears apart, and the blood sprayed through the air. A flash of heat, and the spray was a burning rain that ripped through armour and flesh. A dozen soldiers died in its path before the flames fizzled out. The Briarheart slammed the two spears into the ground, and a tornado of fire rose from the blood at his feet, consuming him in a pillar of red flame and black smoke.

Aicantar could feel the heat from where he stood deep in the centre of the Silver-Blood lines. The Briarheart's hedge magic had thankfully missed him, but his stomach sank as the pillar grasped for the black sky. It strained and gasped as it reached its peak, and a great wind blew as the monument of fire collapsed onto itself – collapsed onto the Briarheart. He was aflame, burning brighter than the sun. Tendrils reached out and licked the few soldiers left around him, their skin bursting into flames. Their screams tore through Aicantar's heart. The Briarheart ran forward, fire trailing behind him. Whoever wasn't engulfed in flames was impaled on one of the mammoth spears. Man after man fell before the Forsworn beast, and fear spread faster than the flames. The Nord fury was broken, and the hoard poured forward. Burnt and blistered bodies filled Aicantar's eyes. He saw death, and he couldn't move. The phalanx was torn apart and washed away by the Forsworn army and their flaming leader. He couldn't move. Ondolemar screamed something next to him. The golden guards raised their shields.

The Briarheart slammed his spear into the shield of the first guard. The spear shattered on impact, punching a dent in the shield and crushing the guard's arm. He screamed in pain at his broken arm, but he held the shield higher. He swung with his sword, but a flame kissed his hand, and his gauntlet glowed red hot. He dropped his sword. The other spear went through his helmet.

Ondolemar stared at the red, frothy eyes of the not-man. He was scared, but he would not move. With a flick, lightning had shot from his hand, followed by another bolt. Both landed on the Briarheart's chest, singeing flesh with a sharp sizzle. The beast of a man turned to Ondolemar. The Elf threw ice next, but the roaring flames around the Briarheart melted the projectile before it got close. Lightning. This time to the face. He grunted as his cheek was ripped, and he pushed the last two guards away as he ran at Ondolemar.

Aicantar raised his hand. He didn't know why, but he saw the hulking man run at Ondolemar, and instinct meant he had to do something. The Briarheart was only two steps away from Ondolemar when he was stopped in his tracks with a horrible crack as his nose broke. A solid wall of green magic stood before him, but it crumbled away as Aicantar was rocked by the shock of the impact. Blood poured down the Briarheart's twisted face. He screamed as he took another step towards Ondolemar. He did not take another one. A shining sword stuck out from his briar. Blood poured out from the gnarled, twisted, evil seed as if it were a real heart. Thongvor Silver-Blood rose with grunts and shouts as his aching body protested. The Briarheart dropped his spear. His mouth hung dumbly open. Thongvor gritted his teeth and stared into the monster's fading eyes. He spat in his face and pulled the sword out with a spiteful tug. The monster fell to the ground, limp. Thongvor turned to Ondolemar and nodded before raising his sword in the air and bellowed with fury and power.

Aicantar grinned and shouted out too. The army rallied, seeing their commander not only up and fighting, but standing over the body of a man that had killed so many of them. Horns and drums filled the air, and the Forsworn army began their hurried retreat back to their camp. Thongvor and his army wasted no time in giving chase, and Thongvor, renewed with vigour, sprinted to the front of the pack, the briar still oozing on the end of his sword.

* * *

Kerah's heels clacked on the hard stone of Markarth's streets as she stepped out of her towering bronze front door. She was lucky that her husband was such a good smith, as it afforded them a fairly luxurious property on the first terrace. Hewn from the cliff itself was her elaborately carved porch, boasting dwarven pillars and a moss-covered shelter. Holes above the door served as both windows and ventilation shafts, and two bronze firepits spat sparks and white smoke. It was a fine property, and one she was proud to call home, but it was nothing compared to her neighbour. The Treasury House stood apart from all other properties on the terrace and spanned an impressive stretch of the cliff. Windows and arrow slits were cut into the grey stone, guarded by bronze monsters and carvings of ancient dwarven battles. The final stretches of the east and west wings curved out into the street, armed with three arrow slits apiece. Any mob who tried to bash down the doors would find themselves mowed down by crossbow fire. The doors themselves were as tall as giants and required four men to open them fully. The long history of the Silver-Blood clan was intricately and painstakingly detailed on the bronze door in silver, and the sigil of clan Silver-Blood was the centrepiece. As the red guards heaved the door open for Kerah, the silver ingot and dagger were split open.

"Ah, right on time," said the slightly plump Breton girl at the front desk. The hall was dark and filled with incense. Light came from high ventilation shafts and the candles in silver sticks that guarded every surface, but most came from a giant dwarven lantern that hung from the ceiling. A turquoise flame burned fiercely in a bronze cage.

"A pleasure to see you, Rhiada," replied Kerah. "Is she ready for me?"

"Of course," she said with a beam. With a grunt and a scrunched face, she hoisted herself up from her chair. She rested her hand on her swollen belly. Her desk was squashed between two archways, and Rhiada gently pressed her hand to the stone arch for support. Kerah waited by the door. She would rather help the poor girl walk, but long ago she learnt the proper way to act in the Treasury house. She was yet to be invited to move. She tapped an absent finger on the mahogany box in her hands and squinted at the barred gate atop a set of stone steps behind Rhiada's desk. Through the thin gaps, she caught glimpses of mounds of silver and gold. Wrought iron safes lined the back wall, and a single candle stood on a stone table in the centre.

"Follow me, dear," said Rhiada, leading Kerah along a thick orange carpet towards the east wing.

"Is it me or is there more silver than usual in the treasury?"

"Is that really any of your business?" asked Rhiada. She laughed gleefully at Kerah's horrified face. "No, you're quite right. For whatever reason Lord Silver-Blood has been trying to impress visitors more than usual. Rich men step through the door and stall as they see Lord Silver-Blood's mountain of riches. I guess it gives him the upper hand in negotiations."

"A smart man," said Kerah, with raised brows. "I would be worried displaying all my wealth like that, though."

"You don't have the most secure treasury in Skyrim. Dwarven metal that thick cannot be cut through, and neither can six feet of stone," said Rhiada. The walk was too much for her. She reached out an arm and linked it with Kerah's.

"Magic might."

"I've never heard of a mage thief myself but rest assured Thonar has protection for that too. That treasury has guarded the Reach's silver for generations, and never has so much as a single coin gone missing."

They walked down a dark corridor lined with austere portraits of Silver-Bloods long gone. The orange carpet gave way to a brown one that was detailed in gold. Kerah recognised it as a design from Hammerfell.

"Rhiada, why does Lord Silver-Blood make you work so late into your pregnancy?" asked Kerah, staring at her stomach.

Rhiada laughed a sweet note. "Lord Silver-Blood does not make me do anything. With my dear Eltrys working the smelters, I would be alone all day in our tiny room. At least here I am kept busy and have a cushioned chair to rest my fat arse on."

Kerah laughed and clasped the Breton's arm.

"Here we are," said Rhiada, knocking on a door made of light wood with silver bolts.

"Come in," called a soft voice. Rhiada pushed the door open with a grunt. Light blinded Kerah as the smell of lavender and lilies hit her. The circular room benefited from three tall narrow windows, devoid of glass and guarded by a single bronze bar each. The room had exorcised itself of all Dwemer austerity and instead decorated itself in rich tapestries and carved mahogany furnishings. A chaise longue sat under a window, accompanied by a delicate side table that held tiny crystal glasses and decanters. Dusty light fell on an enormous bed made of dark wood, topped with a two-foot mattress stuffed with feathers. Rich red covers and cushions were piled high on top of it. Underneath the central window sat Betrid who was humming a simple happy tune. She sat on a cushioned chair in front of a vanity topped with marble. A polished silver mirror framed in mother of pearl reflected her perfectly rouged cheeks and porcelain skin. The counter was piled high with perfumes, powders, tinctures, salves, creams and every beauty product that the Empire and beyond had to offer.

Betrid's reflection smiled at Kerah kindly and beckoned her into the room. Kerah smiled in return and graceful strolled over rugs of fur that hid the cold stone floor.

"Rhiada, my dear, did you leave the front desk unmanned?" asked Betrid sweetly as she turned in her chair.

Rhiada was about to leave but stopped at Betrid's voice. "Yes, m'lady, Kerah needed escorting to your quarters."

"And no guard could have done that? And now my husband's important patrons might be waiting without so much as a hello," she said with a beam.

"Lady Silver-"

"I do not want to hear excuses. Waddle your fat feet back to the entrance hall. Now. Learn to do your job, dear."

Rhiada bowed as low as her pregnant belly would allow and hurried from the room, softly closing the door behind her.

"Lady Silver-Blood, I cannot express my gratitude at your invitation," said Kerah quickly. She wanted to avoid any awkwardness that might invade the room after Betrid's encounter with Rhiada.

"Oh, nonsense," said Betrid, beckoning her over. "Your husband is undoubtedly the best silversmith in the city, and I am a lucky woman indeed to get another private showcase of his work." She turned around to face the mirror once more.

Kerah walked up to the vanity and placed the box on the edge of the table. "It is mine and Endon's greatest honour for you to speak such fine words." She smiled at Betrid's reflection. "Shall we begin?" With a gentle flick of her brown wrist, the mahogany box swung open to expose a veritable trove of treasure.

"If it pleases you, Lady Silver-Blood, I took the liberty of picking out a few select items that I think will compliment you the best," said Kerah.

"Oh, you are _divine_. Please, I am dying to see what suits me," she said with a clap of her hands.

"I want to start with something understated and simple. An everyday item, if you like," she said while pulling a simple silver tiara out of a cushioned pocket in the chest. A single sapphire dangled from a loop at the front. Before Kerah could place it onto Betrid's head, she waved it away with a light hand.

"I mean no offence dear, but I think you may have started a little too simply."

"Of course."

Next came a set of earrings fashioned from Solitude's largest pearls, then a chain of opals in the shape of daisies. Sapphire buttons shaped into waves followed raindrop ruby rings. They were all perfectly lovely.

"But they're just so. Just… I can't seem to put it into words," said Betrid with a frown.

Kerah gave an understanding nod. "Just so very Skyrim."

"Yes, that's it!" she exclaimed. "Wonderful work, truly skilful, but I can't help but want something dazzling. Something that would make women gasp when they saw it. I hope I have not offended?" she pleaded with doe eyes.

"You could never, Lady Silver-Blood. Besides, between you and I, my husband thinks the same. What with the war and Pale Pass entirely blocked up there is only so much he can work with," she said while putting down an emerald ring detailed with silver knots.

"Kerah, darling, pull that chair over. Us two brilliant women can surely work through this problem." Kerah dutifully sat down next to Betrid. "What is the most beautiful piece of jewellery you have ever seen?"

Kerah smiled bashfully. "I have seen many beautiful works, your wedding ring for example."

Betrid held up the enormous diamond so that it caught the light from the window. A thousand coloured stars span across the room. "It is lovely, but you did not answer my question."

"Truly?" she asked. With a wistful smile, she pulled a ring off her left hand and placed it in Betrid's. It was silver, dulled by age, and decorated with nothing but a few crude engravings of interlocking squares. "Endon was at the very beginning of his apprenticeship, and it was the first ring he ever made. It took him a whole month to make something that would take him minutes now, but he was so proud, and he worked all those hours just so he could ask for my hand. No ring will ever be more beautiful than that lumpy and crooked scrap of silver."

Betrid studied the ring closely, running her nails along the rough surface of Endon's labour of love. She passed it back to Kerah. "I don't think I like silver very much."

"I have one last thing to try. It is perhaps not gasp worthy, but it is rare." She pulled from a fold in her dress a simple white cloth. Placing it on the vanity, she gently unfolded the package to reveal a thick, heavy bracelet of Dwarven metal. Set in the centre of geometric constellations was a single exquisitely cut ruby. "It is Dwemer, of course, thus making it thousands of years old."

"To wear Dwarven jewellery in Markarth is a bit on the nose don't you think?" asked Betrid, staring down at the bracelet. It was nothing like her pretty little trinkets, and it certainly would stand out, but Betrid wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Perhaps, but I have yet to see anyone wear anything like this. Very few people in Skyrim can work with Dwarven metal, and those that can don't make jewellery from it. This is rarer than any diamond. It would tell everyone around you that they are guests in your city, as the Dwarves have chosen you alone to decorate in finery. It is fitting."

Betrid smiled. She liked that that a lot, and she was sure that she could have an outfit tailored that would complement the bracelet. Certainly nothing she had now could support such a heavy and unwieldy item. "And how in Oblivion did you get hold of this?"

Kerah's eyes glimmered. "I am afraid my sources must be kept a secret, for their safety as well as my own."

Betrid nodded. "I understand, and I find it is better if I do not know these things either way. Kerah, I think you have sold me. I do not know if the Dwarves considered this beautiful, and I don't even know if I do, but it will certainly be the most talked about accessory in Markarth for at least a week." She smiled and leant forward. "How much for it?"

"It is very difficult to price such a unique item, as I'm sure you're aware, but I value this at 5000 gold," she said calmly and confidently.

Betrid whistled through her teeth. "You could buy a house with that."

"You could buy a bracelet with that."

"Don't be funny now, darling. That is a lot of money." She winked and wagged a finger at her. "And I cannot help but feel that you are trying to swindle me. Five years ago, Count Desilus Carvain of Bruma purchased an ancient Akaviri crown for 4000 gold. Three years ago, Queen Junessia of Wayrest sold her earrings of Ayleid Welkynd stone fragments to the Emperor's wife for 2500 gold. I could go on, but you see my point. Your bracelet is lovely, Kerah, but you cannot look me in the eye and ask 5000 gold for it." Betrid was quick and firm, and Kerah was rather taken aback.

"I should never have underestimated your business savvy. I am clearly not as good a saleswoman as my husband is a smith."

"Perhaps not, but I do find you quite lovely regardless," she said with a smile that scrunched her ocean blue eyes.

Kerah smiled bashfully. "Truly, I think it is worth 3000 gold."

Betrid squinted her eyes and thought for a moment, tapping her long nails on the marble vanity. "You know, I am inclined to agree. You have a deal." She stretched out a hand which Kerah shook gratefully. "Now, as you might imagine I do not keep that kind of money in my closet. Let's go find my husband and convince him to open his fat purse."

The hall to Thonar's meeting room was dark and oppressive, deliberately so. Dwarven burners had been put out, and only half the necessary candles sat on dark wood tables. The rugs were red and brown and absorbed almost all light that hit them. A single chandelier hung at the entrance of the bronze door, inviting one away from the dark hall and to the promise of warmth. Betrid did not hesitate to throw the door open.

Thonar Silver-Blood sat before a red roaring fire, wine glass in hand, next to a bald and wrinkled old Breton.

"Betrid! I am in a meeting here," he said sternly while standing up. The old man did not move.

"Oh, but you are always in meetings with Nepos, and- hello Nepos," she said with a small curtsy. "And it will only take a moment, and it is important."

Thonar huffed. "Nepos, I will be back shortly." Nepos raised a single shaking hand in dismissal.

Thonar led them to the darkened hallway. "What is it?"

"Thonar, dear, this is Kerah, Endon's wife," said Betrid, gesturing an arm. Thonar only stared at the Redguard woman. "She is offering to sell me this wonderful bracelet-"

"How much?"

"Well, I think you should-"

"How much?"

"3000 gold. But-"

"No."

"Thonar!" Betrid shrieked. Thonar did not reply. "You are not listening to me. Yes, it is a lot of money, but no one in Markarth and perhaps all of Skyrim has anything like it. Just look at it," she said waving the bracelet in his face.

"It's Dwarven." He said and wrinkled his nose.

"Yes, and Dwarven jewellery is rarer than any gemstone, and 3000 gold is a _steal_ ," she said with a forced whisper. "It is because we are the Silver-Bloods that she is not charging me the 5000 she would anyone else."

"You will not ask me for another thing for a month, yes?" he said with raised eyebrows and the smallest smile.

"Oh, yes! Yes, my love," Betrid said, kissing him on the cheek. Her eyes glowed with excitement.

Thonar pulled out a chain from around his neck and handed it to Betrid. On the end of it hung a heavy golden key. "Go to the treasury and get the coin. Give the key right back to me when you're done." He turned away, stopped and turned back. "And make sure she waits here."

Kerah was rather pleased when she left the Treasury House several minutes later, a bracelet lighter and 3000 gold heavier. Her mind, however, was racing with all that she needed to tell Margret.

* * *

Tacitus and Ghorza ducked as they heard and saw the wall explode. The sound thudded through their chests, and they could only stare as the sun was blocked out by a towering column of smoke. The healers, cooks and other sundries of the army screamed at the destruction. The few guards left behind at the camp drew their swords, and several sleeping scouts ran out of their tents, grabbing knives and bows.

Ghorza's mind raced. She looked around at their little square of tents for danger, but everything looked still and normal. "Everyone, calm down!" she roared, gnashing her tusks. "We are not under attack here. I don't know what that was, but people are going to be hurt bad. We need to make sure we are ready for them." She wiped her hands on her apron and pulled open the tent flap to the large infirmary. The healers and nurses inside looked terrified, and they jumped at the sight of the huge Orc. "Is everything ready in here?"

"Just about. What was that?" asked a wrinkled old Nord. What was left of her grey hair was pulled into a harsh bun. Green robes were synched to her waist by a white apron.

"Don't know. Get ready for some ugly wounds."

As always, Ghorza was proven right. It was only a matter of minutes before the first stretchers were being hurried over the ancient bridge. Ghorza stood at the entrance to the camp, directing soldiers, healers and patients to where the needed to be. Tacitus stood by her side, helping anyone who came across the bridge. Armed with herbs and bandages, he provided the best first aid that he could. All healers were busy in the infirmary. Pressure applied to a chest wound. Numbing herbs onto a burnt shoulder. When she wasn't being the best quartermaster she could be, Ghorza would cast an eye towards Tacitus. If only he was half as good a smith as he was a healer. There was a moments lull in the wounded coming through. Tacitus was bent over, his hands on his knees, panting heavily. He was tireless in his work, but it was taking its toll.

"Rest while you can," said Ghorza, slumping down onto the grass. Tacitus smiled and came and lay down beside her. He turned his head to look up at her.

"He wasn't on any of the stretchers," he said simply.

"Aicantar?" asked Ghorza with a coy smile. The smoke was clearing, and the sun shone brighter. Despite the battle and the wounded, it was a strangely pleasant day. It had been far too long since Ghorza had been outside the city.

"Uh, yeah…" said Tacitus, sitting up. "Or Ondolemar, or… or- "

"It's a good sign," said Ghorza.

"They could be dead."

"Could be," she said. Tacitus was silent. He turned to stare at the river, gold light shining through his curls that rustled in the cool breeze.

He looked sad. Ghorza sighed. She was not used to people or their feelings, but she liked the boy, and he liked Aicantar. "It would take more than a single explosion to take out either of them. They're out there." She pointed to the thinning smoke. Flashes of light glanced off the black rock of the Karthspire. Blue then red then white. "I bet you a gold coin that's their magic. They'll be okay."

Tacitus did his best to force a smile. Ghorza tried very hard to make him feel better. It didn't work, but he must truly look miserable for her to even try. He liked that she tried. They sat together for a while, feeling the cool grass between their fingers, listening to the gentle rush of the Karth River. The lights flashing on the Karthspire were mesmerising, but slowly they faded, replaced instead by the reflection of a yellow sun.

The wounded still came in, but it was slow and controlled. The healers had their rhythm, and Ghorza was okay with that. She had to do nothing but enjoy the sun. It felt strange to relax while battle raged in front of her, and she couldn't help but feel a pang as burnt and mutilated bodies passed her by, but what could an Orc do? Tacitus had let the itch get to him, and he was now in the infirmary desperately trying to busy his hands and not his mind. It was just Ghorza and the wild, and she liked it that way.

She had spent the last few minutes just staring at the reeds. And then they moved. She squinted as a few stalks rustled the wrong way and flicked her pointed ears at the sound of movement in the water. She stood up and took a tentative step towards the riverbank. The disturbances had stopped, but whatever was there hadn't run away. A minute passed, and the sparkling clear river betrayed nothing. The reeds swung in unison to the shifting currents of the breeze. She sniffed. No new smells. She was about to shrug the whole thing off as the work of a rogue mudcrab, but then she saw it. Two brown eyes peaked from the mud. She gasped as the riverbank exploded. A dozen men and women dripping in mud launched themselves onto the grass, soiling it with filth. Their bodies were covered in chitin and scales, the remains of mudcrabs and slaughterfish. Deadly sharp shivs of bone were grasped in fists, dribbling the riverbed onto the already filthy hands that carried them. All that remained unstained were wild eyes and rotting teeth frozen into snarls.

She ran. They chased. Her boots pounded into the soft earth, and she could hear the Forsworn running behind her. Their boots hit the ground as hard as hers did, and the sound became deafening as they gained ground behind her. The white and brown tents were ahead. If she could make it to the infirmary, to the guards or to the scouts then she'd live. If not…

A hand grabbed her ankle. It was over. She tumbled into the grass as her leg was pulled out from beneath her. Rancid breath burnt her neck. She called out, but it did no good. Muscled arms grabbed her feet, then her calves and then her thighs. They climbed her as she struggled, as she tried to crawl away from the pointed tip of sharpened bone. She clenched her eyes closed as she waited for the searing pain between her shoulder blades. She wanted to warn the others, praying that her shouts had reached them in time. Malacath save them.

Something whistled past her ear, and a horrifying crunch of flesh and bone invaded her senses. The high scream that followed blocked out all around her. The thud of boots and snarls of the wild were gone, and all that existed were the barbaric death shrieks of an animal. She opened her eyes. Tacitus was bathed in the blinding light of the golden sun, and it glinted off the crossbow that was pressed to his eye. He raised his head and lowered the crossbow, hastily pulling back the handle to reload another bolt. Ghorza rolled over and without thinking landed a nasty punch on the side of the screaming woman's head, and Ghorza felt bone and joints crumble under her fist. The Forsworn woman collapsed, blood spurting from the bolt in her chest. Ghorza ripped herself up from the ground and began running again, her lungs on fire as her vision narrowed. It was only Tacitus in front of her. If she could just reach him, then together they could take on the horde. He aimed again, his legs perfectly balanced and his arms exactly level. He closed one eye. He aimed right at her head. The last of Ghorza's breath left her lungs as the bolt whistled less than an inch from her ear. She felt it snag loose hairs and sing its high note deep into her ear, but it was over in a second as she heard it make contact right behind her, and the sting of hot blood hit the back of her neck. They were so close. She could almost feel their breath and smell their stench, and the thud of boots was almost on top of her.

The guards came running from behind the nearest tent, red shields raised and swords flashing. They were at Ghorza's side in a heartbeat. She felt her heart miss a beat as her body registered that she might live, and it was enough to give her legs a final burst of strength. She heard a shriek as a hand brushed down her back, sharp nails digging into her skin and ripping her red jerkin, but they couldn't catch her. The guards hit with a roar, and steel bit into wet flesh. Tacitus released another bolt. Bone daggers shattered on chainmail.

Ghorza collapsed onto the grass at Tacitus' feet, looking up at him as he released his final bolt. She watched it fly through the air and land between the eyes of the final Forsworn attacker. Ghorza gulped more air and coughed it out instantly. Her heart was about to explode, and her lungs and legs burned, but she was alive, and the sun seemed even sweeter than before.

* * *

"Elves! Get up on that cliff!" Screamed Thongvor as he hacked into a dark man in furs. Ondolemar was at his side, and he barked a reply as he blasted two Forsworn with a stream of scorching fire. He spun around, looking for Aicantar. He saw him dawdling in the third row of soldiers, loathe to join the fight. Ondolemar pushed back through the lines to reach him.

"Did you hear Thongvor?" Aicantar shook his head. "We need to get up on that cliff," he said, pointing to his right. The crumbling flank of the Karthspire created a black cliff that gave a vantage point over the entire camp. Aicantar nodded.

The left flank of the army was pressed right up against the cliff's edge, desperately hacking their way through the endless tide of bloodthirsty beasts. Atop the cliff were Forsworn archers and javelin throwers who rained down death from above. A pile of the dead lined the base of cliff, most peppered in arrows, but some had been unlucky enough to take a rock to the head. The left flank was threatening to crumble under such strain. Thongvor and Ondolemar saw this and began hacking their way away from the centre. Aicantar dutifully followed.

Thongvor ducked as a bone axe swung for him. The next blow landed on his steel shield, and he swung back at the naked man covered in nothing but brown swirling warpaint and an iron torc around his neck. Thongvor bashed his shield into the man's face, cracking his jaw. While the man was stunned, Thongvor lunged and pushed his sword through his chest. Keeping momentum, he swiped at a Forsworn woman draped in a black wolf pelt who was bashing a soldier with a stone mace. The poor boy's armour was nearly shredded, and he couldn't get a footing to swipe back. Thongvor's swipe cut off her arm, and the soldier finished her off with a jab of his spear to her neck.

Ondolemar flicked spears of ice at any forsworn unlucky enough to cross his path. With little to no armour to protect them, the spears always hit flesh. He smiled brutally as a head was detached from a naked body by a particularly vicious spell. The soldiers around him quivered and backed away from his ferocious displays of magic, but many of them found themselves grateful for his magic when it saved them from a shiv to the neck.

Aicantar stared up the black stairs that were hewn from the very cliff itself. They were wide enough to allow ten men to walk abreast, and Aicantar couldn't help but be reminded of the grand staircase in Understone Keep. Strangely, however, this one had no guards.

"Get up there now!" shouted Thongvor as he threw off a wild man who had leapt onto his back. As the man hit the ground, Thongvor followed with a blow from his shield to his neck.

It was a race to the top before being seen, and Aicantar's legs ached worse than ever as they approached the final few steps. Ondolemar grabbed him and dragged him to the ground. His guards followed suit and lay across the steps, their heads just below the crest.

"I need your magic now. You know what has to be done."

"I know. I'm ready to do it." If Aicantar had learnt anything that day it was that one either fought or they died.

Ondolemar nodded to his guards, and they both launched themselves over the steps and stood pressed against each other, their shields clasped together. They slowly pushed forward as arrows thudded into their shields, but they made nothing but the odd dent. Ondolemar and Aicantar pushed themselves over the top of the stairs and instantly began blasting spells at the group of archers. Ondolemar threw three fireballs into the crowd, rending limbs from a dozen bodies. The blasts shook the ground, and the Forsworn panicked at the sight of such destruction, but there was nowhere for them to go. The Karthspire rose to their left and their back, and the cliff edge beckoned to their right. Aicantar's face was stone, and his heart beat slow and steady as he conjured a harsh wind that swept up magical spikes of ice. It was beautiful, in a way, how the sun made it shine like soft silk and crystal. The Forsworn did not think the same as the ice storm blew them off the cliff edge, and their screams were swallowed by the sound of battle as they plunged to the hard ground.

"Has battle really hardened you that quickly?" asked Ondolemar with just a sprinkle of genuine concern.

Aicantar shook his head. "I can't think about that. It was them or me, and that's all I can tell myself." His hands were sweaty, but he breathed deeply to keep himself under control.

Ondolemar couldn't help but feel for him. The poor boy was trying to be big and strong. He was about to order Aicantar to seek out hostile mages, but he followed Aicantar's gaze. The boy stood at the cliff edge, staring over the battlefield from their new vantagepoint. "You could almost call it beautiful," he said, taking a moment to view how the battle faired.

The camp sprawled the length and width of the valley and was larger than Aicantar could have imagined. It housed thousands in wooden huts and clusters of brown leather tents. There was no organisation to the camp, and crooked structures climbed one another in a heap, like ivy choking all around it to reach the sun. The lucky ones got huts and tents on dry ground, but the majority lived in swamped stacks above the river itself, supported only by crisscrossed rickety stilts. It climbed several stories high and peaked with a rough flagpole flying a tattered shred of yellow canvas adorned with a black outline of a stag skull. Archers fired into the Silver-Blood lines from scattered platforms and balconies. Smoke billowed up to the cliff from fires that had broken out in the camps as the red wave of Silver-Blood soldiers pushed the tide of Forsworn back to their very homes. Blood and bodies choked the river, and the ground was a churned-up field of mud.

"We're winning," said Ondolemar simply. "But it's not over yet." He pointed to the main feature of the camp. A great stone bulwark formed a cliff on the opposite riverbank, complete with a towering sculpted dragon head. It was a great snake that slithered along the river, with ancient black bricks as scales and two bare-chested Forsworn mages as teeth. These teeth had spotted Aicantar and Ondolemar and spat foul venom at them in the form of bolts of crackling blue lightning. Ondolemar grunted as the bolt deflected off his newly conjured ward, and Aicantar rolled to the side as the bolt flew past him, singeing his hair and robes. It collided with stone in a heart-stopping crack. Ondolemar flicked fire and ice over the valley at the mages, but they had wards ready too.

Magic snapped back and forth across the chasm, but Ondolemar was drained. His magic use throughout the battle had cost him dearly, and now his ward flickered, and his destruction spells faltered. Thongvor saw this and knew he had to act. The Forsworn mages were focused with grim eyes on the two Elves, and they couldn't see Thongvor hoist a javelin above his shoulder. With a sprint and guttural shout, he launched it far into the air, and he prayed to Talos as it soared over the river towards the bulwark. A grim smile stretched across his dirt and blood covered face as the javelin popped the ward of one of the mages. It stuck out from the centre of his chest as great bursts of blood poured down his body. He grabbed onto the shaft with a dumb look of shock on his face before collapsing onto the ground, his torso hanging off the edge of the wall.

Ondolemar was almost as shocked as the mage, and he looked down into the battle to see the glittering silver commander salute him. Ondolemar smiled and saluted back. The body slid off the bulwark and splashed into the river below.

The other mage raged as his brother fell at the hands of the Nords, and he dropped his ward in favour of doubling his attack. Ondolemar leapt away from the new barrage of lightning and fire, but Aicantar stood his ground. He spun round, clutching at cold air as, inspired by Thongvor, a thick javelin of ice floated in the air before him. The mage didn't see it coming, blinded by his own fire. The ice spike went through his chest and pinned him to the cliff behind him.

Thongvor roared in victory, and his army pushed ever forward, forcing the Forsworn into the rough brown and bloodied water. The death blow came when a horn sounded across the valley, followed by a second. Greeted by a great cheer from the Silver-Blood army, 300 Nord soldiers rushed into the fray from behind the bulwark. They crashed into the water and waded as fast as they could to the other side, catching the rear of the Forsworn army by surprise. Banners fluttered in the breeze. One was a field of green, on which was a brown ring of knotted branches and roots that joined through the centre to form the trunk of a gnarled tree. The other was a sky of yellow, onto which was imprinted the cragged opening to a red cave.

"Old Hroldan and the Sinkhole join our sport!" Cried Thongvor, and the army replied with the sound of roars and cheers and the clamour of weapons smacking shields.

Ondolemar and Aicantar smiled. It was truly a sight to behold to see the Karth River churned up into white froth by the pounding boots of an army of Nords. Their armour wasn't as expensive as the Silver-Bloods, and their leaders did not glitter in the sun and ride on armoured horses, but they had the same fury and the same burning Nord pride. They wore their green and yellow clothes as proudly as any Silver-Blood wore their red.

Aicantar whooped and yelled. There was death and blood yet to come, but from where he stood, watching the beastly horde snarl and froth as they were trapped between two armies, he saw a sure victory.

Ondolemar's smile slowly faded into an anxious frown. The Forsworn were still fighting, but the Briarheart had died a long time ago, and Ondolemar had seen no sign of any other commander. Any other army would have collapsed at the sight of their leader having their heart ripped out, but the Forsworn didn't even flinch. Sure, they were wild and ferocious and did not fight like an ordinary army, but it still didn't sit right.

They didn't notice the bubbling pool of black tar that seeped from the rock behind them. Over the din of slaughter, they did not hear wiry, twisted limbs crack as they pulled a crooked body from the puddle of dark evil. The two golden guards didn't even notice as talons punctured their throats.

Ondolemar certainly heard talons whistle as they struck. He heard the sickening wet crunch of flesh and bone being torn, and he heard the gurgling of blood pouring down throats like cheap wine. He heard swords and shields clatter onto hard stone. His stomach dropped as he turned around and faced the foulest beast he had ever seen. Evil magic dripped from black, iridescent feathers that poked from famished arms and withered legs. Tatters of foul, rotting cloth hung from translucent white skin, and a single sagged breast swung out from the bare threads. Scaled talons protruded from where toes should be, but it was the face that made Ondolemar sick. An old crone stared back at him, but the chin was jutting and broken, and the eyes were murderous like a crow. A nose stuck impossibly far out from the bowels of the face like a beak. A hard beak could have supported such length, but the soft nose sagged and swung from broken bone and rotted tendons. All was framed by strings of greasy grey hair that plastered onto skin scarred by warts and chasms.

Aicantar retched, and his eyes watered as his heart panged. The two noble Elves, once so stoic and upright and proud, now hung limp by their necks. Black talons went in through one side and came out the other, and, like a puppet master, every time she twitched her fingers the Elves moved too. Cold and lifeless were their eyes, and the golden colour drained from their skin as their blood pooled on the ground beneath them. With a hateful cackle, the Hagraven ripped her claws free, and the guards dropped into their own blood.

"Remember what I told you," said Ondolemar with a grimace as he pulled out his mace. Lightning crackled at its points.

"But you don't have much Magicka left, and-"

"Get out of here!" he screamed, his voice booming out. "You promised."

Aicantar, for a moment, was more terrified of Ondolemar than the Hagraven. He turned and ran for the stairs, but a steaming stream of bubbling tar blocked his way. The rock itself seemed to melt underneath it. Aicantar stared at it, his limbs unwilling to risk a jump. Ondolemar saw this too. "Up the cliff. Go!"

Aicantar scrambled up loose grey rock, pulling himself up the Karthspire one boulder at a time. He heard the Hagraven cackle below him and the clang of metal. He dared a look down and saw Ondolemar wildly swinging at the ever laughing Hagraven.

"Yes – he he- yes! Pretty metal. Pretty eyes. Pluck them out and crunch them up yes!" she shrieked in a high screeching voice. She was depraved, but she was fast. Every swing of the mace was blocked by her talons, and even as the sparks flew on impact, it did nothing but create puffs of black feathers. The magic would not hurt her. She swung back viciously, catching air and air again as Ondolemar stepped back. Sparks cracked in every direction as he blocked a blow on his mace. He tried to kick her legs, but she kicked back and caught his thigh. He stumbled as tendons were torn. On one knee he swung up and tried to catch her nose, but she swung back harder, and with a bang the mace went flying. He cast a spell of weak red flame, but it never left his hand. He shouted in pain, and she cackled, but the loudest sound of all was the screech of metal being torn apart as her claws dug into his armour, tearing three deep gashes. Ondolemar lay still and bleeding on the rock.

Aicantar couldn't move. He was ten feet up, nowhere near safety, but he could not will his legs to shift. Ondolemar was struck down, and Aicantar choked as he pleaded to any god that would listen for Ondolemar to get back up again, but no one answered. Ondolemar's sharp cheeks and pointed jaw were bruised and grazed and still. His eyes were closed, and his white hair splayed like sunrays on the black rock. Aicantar begged again.

The Hagraven, with a screech loud enough for even Thongvor to hear, turned to cast her wicked yellow eyes down onto the army below. "Bubble bubble," She giggled and raised her arms to the sky, spinning them round as if to summon a great wind. Her talons clacked together as blood dribbled down her arms. The screams of men began to drown out her own shrieking. Aicantar looked to the army where the Karth River itself had turned into a broiling mass of black evil. It bubbled up like a wicked brew spilling over the lip of a cauldron, and the river burst its banks. Any man who touched the steaming tar was scalded, and already a score of them were dissolved entirely in the thick, writhing spell. Sheer panic overtook the armies as soldiers fell to their deaths in the ceaseless tide of darkness. The Hagraven opened her crooked jaw wide and shrieked once more as feathers tore themselves from her back and became a cloud of crows that circled and swarmed above her. With a point of a single sharp nail, the murder dived liked crossbow bolts at the army. With vicious precision, the birds had found exposed necks and eyes and plunged their sharpened beaks into them, greedily drinking the fluid that came from popped eyeballs or sliced arteries.

The slaughter was too much for Aicantar, and his legs shook so hard that he almost fell from his precarious height. His heart hurt as it pounded against his ribs, and his stomach turned at the grizzly deaths before him. Yet his body would not move. Ondolemar had been cut down, the army was being massacred, but he was still alive. He had to do something.

A firebolt slammed into the side of the Hagraven's cheek, and the skin melted from her face. In an instant, the Karth River was once again clear water, crashing back down into its banks as it carried viscous trails of the evil spell and the half-boiled bodies of dead men. The crows were now nothing but feathers that fluttered from the sky. The Hagraven turned, murder in her eyes. She threw an ice spike at Aicantar, then another and another, but he blocked them with a wavering ward.

Thongvor saw the duel between the young Elf and the Hagraven. Aicantar had saved them, for now, but Thongvor knew he had to save him. He clutched his sword and battered shield and ran towards the steps. He had killed one Hagraven before, and he prayed that he could do it again.

Aicantar scrambled up the slope, kicking loose stones behind him. Blasts of fire and lightning tore up the cliffside, and rivulets of black tar burst from the rock all around him, but he was fast and nimble. Leaping from boulder to boulder, he was able to dodge the worst of the attacks, and he still had enough Magicka to ward off some of the spells. He knew, however, that in an instant the evil crone could bring the entire mountain down on top of him. It dawned on him then that she was toying with him.

"Little… beetle likes to – he- run. Little birdy likes to… FLY," she cawed, and in a single flap of her tattered wings she launched herself up the mountainside. Suddenly she was only a few feet below Aicantar, and as he scrambled to get higher, so did she. Sharp claws grabbed at his ankle and robes as she screamed taunts at him "The eyes. The eyes! She will have the… eyes and then the fat. The fat. The fat liver." She got a hold, and her nails dug into his boots, threatening to tear through the leather and into his flesh. He could smell her putrid breath, and he grimaced as he saw worms and maggots crawl between sharpened teeth as she opened her maw to bite down. Her eyes were yellows slits, her skin burnt from his spell and warted like a toad. He gave it one last shot and kicked. Hard. He was almost as surprised as she was when he felt the heel of his boot crumple her nose. With a squeal she tumbled away from him, the grip on his boot loosening. Down the mountainside she fell, the wind catching in her black wings just enough to soften the blow as she bounced off a jutting rock, and a few feet further she hit the ground.

Thongvor reached the top of the steps as the Hagraven heaved herself from the ground. Her nose had been ground into her face, and jets of thick black blood spat from the cavern where it had been. Thongvor raised his sword. She threw out her talons. Aicantar landed. With a rock clasped between his hands, he smashed it into her face as she collapsed to the ground with him on top of her. The rock was bloody, and her jaw was crushed. He hit again, and her temple caved in. Again, and again. He was on his knees. Hot blood blinded him, but he kept smashing the rock into her face until there wasn't a face anymore.

Thongvor, in shock himself, pulled Aicantar from the truly dead Hagraven. The Elf sobbed into his arms as Thongvor gently sat down, cradling the battered and blood-soaked, but alive, Aicantar. From atop of the stairs, the last of the sun glinted orange off now still water. Warm light bathed his face, and he breathed deeply the mix of death and the fresh wild. His army had won, and he sighed contentedly as red soldiers carved up the last of the beasts.


	5. Five

"That stings!" shouted Ondolemar as he squirmed in the infirmary bed.

"You're just gonna have to deal with it," said Tacitus as he slapped brown salve onto Ondolemar's bare chest.

"You're not even trying to be gentle," seethed Ondolemar through gritted teeth. The salve seeped into his cuts, and it felt like his blood was on fire.

"And you're being rude," said Tacitus as he rubbed the salve in deeper.

"I am an emissary of the Aldmeri Dominion and a high-ranking member of the Thalmor. You are nothing but a failed smith. Stop insisting on tormenting me."

Tacitus stared down at Ondolemar with a fistful of the sticky, stinking salve. With a face of stone, he pushed the medicine as hard as he could into Ondolemar's wounds. He never broke eye contact. Ondolemar screamed, and Tacitus walked over to a wash basin to get the brown paste off his hands. "I am helping you because everyone else refused. That happens when you threaten to set people alight."

"What is that even made of?" he said through deep breaths. The stinging was becoming a dull throb.

Tacitus turned around and smiled as he shook his hands dry. "You really don't want to know."

"Okay, do not-"

"It's blue mountain flowers and crushed dartwings," he said with glee.

Ondolemar's face was thunder. "You are telling me that you have been pressing insects into my open wounds?" he said with horror.

"Yep. It'll do you good." Ondolemar's panic was too much for Tacitus to bare, and he sighed as he sat down in a chair next to his bed. "It will actually help you. You know alchemy, right? Well, everyone in Skyrim knows that blue mountain flowers have healing properties."

"It is not the flowers I mind, boy."

"When mixed with crushed dartwings, the healing process becomes ten times faster, and it minimises scarring. If you leave that on, then you'll be out of bed in an hour." Tacitus stood up to leave. "Of course, I could have used wheat to the same effect, but then I wouldn't have had the pleasure of this conversation."

Ondolemar lay in the itchy cot watching Tacitus lift the tent flap. His chest burned, and his head throbbed, but it was his ego that hurt the most. "It wasn't my fault."

Tacitus turned around. "You were meant to protect him."

"I did everything I could," Ondolemar said as he heaved himself up to a sitting position.

"He should never have had to fight that Hagraven." Tacitus' arms were crossed as he leered over Ondolemar.

"I never wanted him to. You were there last night when I made him promise that he would run."

"Then why didn't he? Why were you lying on the ground when he had to do what you could not?" he said as his eyes began to water.

Ondolemar opened his mouth to reply but quickly closed it. He cast his head down and sighed. "I was too brazen during the battle and saved none of my Magicka. I was left with little choice, mind, but I should have saved enough in case a Hagraven showed. I almost died because of my stupidity."

"And Aicantar almost died, and the whole damn army almost died. I never thought that the best the Thalmor had to offer would be so stupid."

Ondolemar creased his brow. "Make no mistake, I am the best there is, and every man here would have perished were it not for me."

"No, everyone would be dead if it weren't for Aicantar, but that should never have been his responsibility. By the Eight, he's just a kid," said Tacitus almost pleadingly.

"So are you. Both of you are barely adults, but you see fit to torture and interrogate me. I suppose it was too much to expect the people of Skyrim to understand 'respect your elders'."

"I'm not a child in the same way as him. I have travelled, and I have fought, and I have had to look after myself and make tough decisions. He has lived his whole life in Understone Keep where everything is done by servants and food just appears on plates. He was nowhere near prepared enough for what you put him through, and it almost broke him," said Tacitus. Ondolemar was silent. Tacitus sighed and sat back in the chair. "Did you know I killed my first man today? Actually, it was a woman, but without pausing I killed two more Forsworn after the first. It's what I had to do or Ghorza would've died, and honestly I don't feel anything. But Aicantar? He cried the whole way back to camp, and Lord Silver-Blood had to carry him most of the way. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

Ondolemar nodded. "I never should have brought him here in the first place."

Tacitus smiled. "But," he said with heavy emphasis. "It was his choice still, and you don't really deserve half the shit I'm giving you right now. I was just so worried and so angry. You were right in the end, though. You really did need his help."

Ondolemar smiled and reached out a hand as an offer of a truce. Tacitus took it but made sure to squeeze just a little too hard. "How is he now?" asked Ondolemar.

"Better, actually, now he's eaten something and has got used to the fact that it's all over. He'll be fine. He's actually with Lord Silver-Blood."

"He's with Thongvor?" Ondolemar's voice was full of concern.

"Yeah." Tacitus paused to study Ondolemar. His golden skin shimmered with a thin sheen of sweat, and his pointed ears twitched at every pang that shot through his wounds. "You truly care for him too, right?"

"I do, for what it's worth. Despite my best instincts, I risked my life to try to save him."

"Well, I need you to try to save him again." Ondolemar frowned with confusion. "The night before we left Markarth, his uncle told him about something terrible about to happen to the city. Most of it was riddles that I didn't understand, but he made one thing very clear. Aicantar needed to stay away from Lord Silver-Blood. He made him promise, but now he's in a private audience with the man. Calcelmo was worried about something big, and I don't think the risk has passed."

"I don't like the sound of that, either. I know nothing of whatever plot Calcelmo is cooking up, but Thongvor is dangerous at the best of times. I'll go find him."

"No, I didn't mean right now. You need to recover."

"I still do not take orders from you," Ondolemar said. "But I will go help our friend." He wiped the salve from his chest and slapped it on the floor. He revealed three long but thin white wounds. "By Mara, that stuff really works," he said in shock.

"Told you. There's not much you can't do with simple alchemy. It looks good, though, and you're probably fine to leave. Promise me that when you get some Magicka back you'll touch it up," he said, and he stood as Ondolemar heaved himself out of the cot and pulled on his robes.

"I promise." He hesitated a moment. "Thank you, Tacitus."

Tacitus gave a small smile and bowed slightly as Ondolemar hobbled out the tent. That strange Imperial boy had done a rare thing, and Ondolemar was not feeling comfortable. It had been a long time since someone had taught him something.

* * *

"May I offer you some wine?" asked Thongvor as he brought over a crystal carafe to where Aicantar lay.

"Please," said Aicantar gratefully. He was propped up on a chaise longue stuffed with itchy red cushions. It was luxurious but not exactly comfortable. His discomfort was not just physical, however, and his stomach churned as his uncle's warning span round his mind. Thongvor was treating him well, but Aicantar had learnt long ago to fear whatever his uncle feared.

Thongvor pulled over a velvet cushioned chair and a small side table. Aicantar was passed a large glass of ruby wine and took a thirsty sip. It was velvety and smooth. Tangy, but not too acidic, and with just the right hint of sweetness. Restorative is what the vintners would call it. All thoughts of his uncle vanished. "Lord Silver-Blood, this is exceptionally good. Where is it from?"

"Please, call me Thongvor. No hero should have to be subjected to useless formalities," he said, sipping his own glass. "But to answer your question, this is from an estate in the Colovian Highlands of Cyrodiil. They call it 'Argonian Bloodwine', but I have been assured that it does not contain actual Argonian blood."

"Forgive me, Thongvor, but for someone so vehemently opposed to the Empire, it seems strange for you to enjoy fine Cyrodilic wines," Aicantar said hesitantly.

"There are few who would dare ask me that, but I am not surprised that you are one of them," he smirked. "Personally, I enjoy fine wines from wherever they may be made. I would enjoy wines from the depths of Oblivion itself, if they had a good vintner." He paused for a moment. "I suppose Sanguine probably has the best wine cellar in the world. But I digress. This wine was bottled before the Great War and represents one of the many things that made up a strong and proud Empire. I'm right in thinking you were born a few years after the Great War?" Aicantar nodded. "Then you never had a chance to see the Empire when it still stood for something. It wasn't Tiber Septim's Empire, but it was still good."

"But then the war happened, and the White-Gold Concordat was signed, and Talos worship was outlawed, and people didn't believe in the Empire anymore," said Aicantar. "Enough people have tried to pin all of that on me despite being born here. As one of the only Elves in Markarth, I was an easy."

Thongvor frowned and nodded. "I want you to know that I do not hate Elves. I don't get along with most Elves, sure, but I won't hate anyone for just being an Elf. And I do not actually hate the Empire either, but it is weak and not worthy of Skyrim or Her Nords."

"So if the Empire could prove to you in some way that it is not weak and thus worthy of the Nords of Skyrim, then could you still support Ulfric?" asked Aicantar. Thongvor was beginning to think of him as a little too bold.

"No, perhaps not. Say another Tiber Septim rose to conquer all of Tamriel and bring the Dominion to heel, then Ulfric's cause would not seem so legitimate, but somehow I don't see that happening." His wine glass was almost empty.

"There are those who see Ulfric Stormcloak as the aspect of Talos himself," said Aicantar probingly.

Thongvor laughed. "Careful that your Thalmor friend doesn't hear you say that. Ulfric is no god, though true he has the pride and might of Tiber Septim, but that's why his cause is so just. He is a man like me or Igmund or any farmer or miner across Skyrim. He is a man with a strong will and a strong sense of justice, and he is fighting for what is in his heart and what is in the hearts of all of Skyrim's faithful; free rule and free worship. It is what every man deserves."

"It does not seem like there is much room for Elves in Ulfric's Skyrim, though," said Aicantar with a stern look.

"Not every Elf, no, but you were born here, Aicantar. You are a child of Skyrim as much as any Nord, and after what I saw you do today… any man who denies your right to live in peace in these lands is an enemy of the Silver-Blood family."

Aicantar stared blankly at Thongvor. No Nord had ever defended him like that.

"That is actually why I brought you to my tent. Every man here owes you their life. You were the hero of this battle. I never thought the day would come where I was indebted to an Elf, but I could not be more glad that I am." Thongvor put down his empty wine glass and stood up straight before bowing deeply to Aicantar.

"Thongvor, I am flattered and honoured, but Ondolemar did so much during the battle-"

Thongvor held up his hand. "I am well aware of what Emissary Ondolemar has done, but it was you who saved us."

As if on cue, Ondolemar lifted the flap to the tent and walked in, his arm clamped to his chest. "Forgive me, Lord Silver-Blood. I was told Aicantar was here, and after all that happened, I felt like I needed to see him."

"Emissary Ondolemar, no apology necessary. Please, take Aicantar with you. I have business I must attend to, but I will send a messenger to fetch you both when the time is right."

"When the time is right for what?" asked Ondolemar.

"When I must present you to the Lords of the Reach so that they may show their gratitude for your actions and your sacrifice." He grinned. "It will be a fine feast."

* * *

The Silver-Blood Inn was roaring with activity as it was most nights. Bards and Skalds sang songs of women and war by the roaring fire, and the greasy bartender sweated as he tried to keep up with the demands for beer, ale and mead. Every table was crowded, and the floor was litterd with revellers dancing to the pounding music. That night, Kerah and Endon had decided to go out and enjoy themselves. A 3000 gold sale had put them in the mood to celebrate. Endon was on his fourth beer and Kerah on her sixth, and they both could feel it.

"Kerah, I love you," he said as he dribbled alcohol down his orange shirt. His thick black beard had foam dripping from it, and his fat lips happily smacked together at the taste of fine Reach beer.

"You love me, because I made you money today," she said with drooped eyes and frizzy hair that desperately tried to escape its ribbon.

Endon grinned stupidly and nodded enthusiastically. Kerah opened her mouth in shock and slapped his arm hard. Endon became suddenly serious.

"I love you because you are still the most beautiful woman in the room, and because you gave me a wonderful daughter who never listens to me," he said and broke down giggling at his own joke.

Kerah couldn't help but laugh along with her dopy husband. "No woman in her right mind should ever listen to you."

"You did. A very long time ago," he said and leaned forward.

"And I have regretted it every day since." She kissed him gently.

Endon grinned and without warning jumped up, kicked back his chair and dramatically held out his hand. "Dance with me, so I know that you love me."

"We're not young anymore," said Kerah as she remained seated.

"We are still young enough to move our legs. Come!" He grabbed her hand and launched her out of her chair.

A raunchy tune began to play, building on slow drumbeats and the soft twanging of a harp, but quickly lutes and flutes joined the fray, and Ogmund the Skald sung deeply about the buxom maiden of Bruma. Endon and Kerah had their arms raised and clapped them in time to the beat as they swayed around each other. As the song built up, the couple grabbed each other and began spinning. The revellers around the room were building themselves up into a frenzy. Their spinning got faster as the song reached its crescendo, and when it hit Endon picked up Kerah and carried on spinning. Kerah screamed and giggled as the room span around her. Her dress billowed out underneath her, and she held on as tight as she could to her husband. The crowd cheered as the music stopped, and Endon gently brought Kerah back down to the ground. She kissed him passionately before her eyes opened wide with terror.

"I need to go outside," she blurted as she clapped a hand to her mouth and ran for the door. Endon tried to grab her, but she was already gone.

She threw open the doors to the inn and fell on her hands and knees in front of the Palace River. She took a deep breath and emptied the contents of her stomach into the clear water. Her wild black hair had come entirely loose and now billowed round her face. That night's stew didn't taste as good the second time around, but she was glad that the river carried her vomit away. She felt someone approach behind her and gently pull back her hair.

"Come on now, get it all up," said Margret's voice.

Kerah wanted to thank her, but all that came up was another bout of vomit. She retched and spat the last of her dinner into the river. Wiping her mouth on her sleeve, she hoisted herself up and took a deep breath to calm her now empty stomach. "Thanks Margret," she said with a sloppy smile. "Where've you been?"

"I was with a friend," she said simply.

"You don't have any friends," she said while swaying. "Except for me." She placed a single finger on Margret's nose.

"Alright, let's get you back inside. You can lie down in my room until the world stops spinning." She linked an arm with Kerah and pushed open the door to the inn. The sound and heat of an evening's revelry felt like a smack to the face.

"Kerah, are you okay?" asked Endon as he rushed over to the pair.

"Just a little too much to drink," she said. "Endon, this is my friend, Margret. She's bought three whole things from the stall."

"Ah, a valued patron of my craft. A pleasure," said Endon and reached out a hand to Margret.

"Likewise," she said and took his hand. "If you don't mind, I think your wife needs to rest for a little while. I have a room here, and I will send her straight back out when she is ready."

"Oh. Okay," said Endon a little disheartened.

"I'll be fine, love. Go find Adara. She should be in here somewhere," said Kerah, her body drooping.

Endon immediately brightened. "Right! That little tyke can't get away from me."

Margret's room was warm and dimly lit, if a little messy. Margret brushed papers off a stone chair and slid Kerah onto it. "This behaviour can be dangerous, you know," she said while putting a kettle of water over the fire.

"Stop it! I'm allowed to have fun with my family," said Kerah with a huff.

"I am not saying you can't, but just be careful that you don't say anything you shouldn't." She sat down in an opposite chair, her red hair bouncing.

"I would never. I suppose I should be extra careful and not tell you what I found out today." She folded her arms like a petulant child.

Margret's eyes brightened. "Don't be silly," she said and slapped Kerah's thigh. "Did Betrid say anything useful?"

"I don't really know. I'm pretty pissed."

"By the Eight, you're a nightmare," said Margret, and her smile vanished. She got up from her chair and took the boiling kettle from the fire. She spooned brown granules into two stone mugs and poured the water in.

"Where in Oblivion did you get coffee?" asked Kerah incredulously. The smell filled the room and reminded her of many happy mornings.

Margret smiled. "Yeah, I thought that would wake you up. Drink it, and then tell me everything."

"Do you have more? Can I take some home?" said Kerah, blowing on the brown drink.

"Imperial agents are given rations of many useful things, and thankfully coffee is provided in ample supply. Tell me what Betrid said right now, and I'll give you a whole bag," she said, gently sipping her own drink.

Kerah shook her head to clear it and stared at Margret intensely. "Rhiada's baby isn't her husband's. It's Thonar's."

"Are you sure?" Margret's mouth was hanging open.

"Well, no, not exactly. I'm sure that Betrid is sure that it's true." Margret's brows creased in confusion. Kerah breathed deeply. "Betrid was horrible to Rhiada, but she was lovely to me and even to her husband. For someone like Betrid to say mean things to that girl's face, she must really loathe her. I think that means that Betrid thinks that Rhiada's baby is Thonar's." She nodded her head and smiled. She was rather pleased that she managed to get that out.

Margret frowned and looked down at her lap. Slowly she nodded and made eye contact with Kerah. "That makes a lot of sense. There's no proof of that, of course, but I buy it. I just don't know how to use that just yet. What else have you got for me?"

"The treasury has protection against magic."

"That is not surprising but good to have confirmed."

"And the only key seems to be kept around Thonar's neck. At one point, though, he did give it to Betrid."

"So Betrid is definitely the weak point we can exploit. And it looks like you got her trust. Very well done."

Kerah smiled like a girl. "There's one more thing. He was meeting with Nepos the Nose."

"I'm not sure that's really important. Nepos handles all his workers. He was probably just getting a report," said Margret.

"But Betrid complained that he was always meeting with Nepos. And remember you saw Nepos enter the Treasury House twice this week already. Three times a week at least is a suspicious number of times to meet with the man that hands out payslips to workers you don't care about." Kerah slurped half her coffee while remaining eye contact and raising her brows.

"You certainly sound sober now."

"Coffee is miraculous. So what do you think?"

"I think that even when you're drunk, you're one of the smartest women in this city. Thonar is up to something, and Nepos the Nose might tell us what. Fantastic work, Kerah. When this is all over, I will make sure the Empire rewards you handsomely."

"Please don't do anything dangerous. I can't take on this whole investigation myself."

Margret laughed, her brown eyes glittering. "Finish your coffee and go find your family. Don't worry about me."

Several minutes later and Margret stood smiling in the shadows of a corridor as Kerah pulled a giggling Redguard girl off Endon's shoulders. Kerah span her daughter around and kissed her husband. Margret hoped Kerah would always remain that happy, and she prayed that she would not regret getting Kerah involved in her conspiracy.

* * *

Jarl Igmund's quarters were not as large nor as richly decorated as some of Skyrim's other Jarl's, but they were certainly more comfortable than most places in Markarth. It was more a cave than a room, but its rough walls and high ceiling could still be warmed by the great roaring fire and the overabundance of soft furnishings and plush rugs. While predominantly his bedroom, complete with an enormous fourposter bed on a raised dais, it still housed his armoury, study and dressing room. That latter of which was tucked away behind a painted canvas screen. The most impressive features, however, were the two thick stone pillars that held the ceiling aloft, and the babbling stream that cut the room in two. Jarl Igmund liked to remind himself that no other Jarl had a river in their quarters. The far side of the stream was gloomier than the rest of the quarters, and it housed little more than a few candles, a shrine and a portrait of a stern man dressed in green.

"Thonar Silver-Blood is a damned piece of work," growled Jarl Igmund as he downed another bottle of ale. As the day had dragged on, the war council had found themselves increasingly restless in the cramped and claustrophobic war room. It was decided, then, that they should retire to Jarl Igmund's private chambers.

"Oh, forget about him for now," said Lady Sungard as she lounged on an emerald sofa. The rest were sprawled across other luxurious furnishings that made the central living section. Arranged in a rough square centred on a pile of vibrant rugs and cushions were chairs and sofas and other more exotic furnishings. Each side lay claim to a small drinks trolley filled with liquors, wines and spirits. Nestled between the river and the fireplace, it was a rather pleasant spot to relax in. Jarl Igmund sat in the most worn chair with a crate of ale by his feet.

"I can't. He's poisoned my mind," he said with a humph.

"I used to say that about my husband when we were courting," said Lady Sungard with a glimmer in her eye.

Jarl Igmund made a face at her and popped open another bottle.

Calcelmo, with a brutish tug, pulled the cork out of a slender brown bottle. "I always enjoy coming to your quarters-"

"I used to say that to my husband too."

"Because you always have a bottle of this. 'Sparkling Honeydew'. I have tried to get hold of this myself countless times, but they always tell me the same thing. 'I'm sorry, but Jarl Igmund has bought up our stock.'"

Jarl Igmund waved a hand at Calcelmo. "Drink away. Enjoy all of this while you can. We'll be dead soon anyway."

Faleen got up from her chair and stood with arms folded over Jarl Igmund. She didn't say a word, and he struggled to look up at her. This lasted a full minute.

"Okay, fine, I'll stop it. Sorry," he said. Faleen grunted and returned to her seat. "Forget about Thonar. The plan is coming together, right? But I'm worried about something else. Even if we get away with this, the Forsworn are still out there. We'll be weaker than ever, and they might see it as the opportunity they've been waiting for."

"Not much use thinking about that either," grunted Moth. "Not much we can do about it."

"No, but I think we need to have a plan. Gotta find a way to make them less of a threat."

"I hope you're just drunk and not actually as stupid as you sound," coughed Raerek.

"That's not very kind, uncle," said Jarl Igmund.

"Stop saying stupid things then, boy. Since Ulfric Stormcloak took over this city, they have always been the greatest threat in the Reach, and I'm certain that they always will be." Raerek threw back his glass of dark whiskey and slammed it hard on a table. "Are you going to ask them nicely to stop killing people in the market square? Hm? Nothing short of their utter destruction will make them less of a threat."

"You do not get to speak to me like that," said Jarl Igmund darkly. "I know full well that they won't accept peace. I think about him every day."

"He wasn't just your father," he blustered and waved an arm at the portrait on the far side of the room. "He was my brother, and I tried to warn him countless times that it was too dangerous, but no. He insisted that they weren't monsters and that he could find a way to make peace. They butchered him on sight." Raerek was riled up. His chin shook, and white spittle flew from his mouth.

"'I told you so' doesn't mean much to the dead," growled Faleen.

"Where was it?" asked Calcelmo shyly. "Did you ever find out which clan it was?"

"No. He wouldn't tell any of us. He said some nonsense about trusting his source and that honourable men keep their promises," said Raerek. "My bet is that it was Madanach himself. Milk drinking scum."

"The King in Rags was killed by Ulfric Stormcloak himself. It was some bitter clan chief who wanted revenge or power or both," said Jarl Igmund as he stared at the stone floor.

"Igmund, darling, you will have your chance at justice. Should I ever get my chance, then I will do everything I can to make it happen. On my honour as a Nord," said Lady Sungard. "I will never forget the day the city woke up to see their Jarl dead outside the gates."

"Thank you," said Jarl Igmund. "But that is why the Silver-Bloods are being pricks. They're from my father's generation, and they see me as just some stupid child playing at being Jarl. They might be right, but I am going to fight damn hard to ruin them."

"Good. Focus back on them. There are a dozen Forsworn strongholds out there, and you won't destroy them all tonight," said Faleen.

"A dozen minus one if Thongvor got lucky. Or there's a dozen and Thongvor's body will appear outside Markarth like my father's. I win either way." Jarl Igmund finished another bottle of ale and belched loudly. He had no intention of slowing down.

* * *

It had been a gruelling descent into the bowels of Nchuand-Zel, and Staubin was feeling all the worse for it. Two workers had been stupid enough to slip and plunge down the deep, gaping mine pit, and now the survivors were face to face with their mangled bodies.

"Oh, how ghastly," whispered one the mages, Krag. "I did not think it would be like this."

"A cosy office is all well and good, Krag, but this is where real work happens. It is not too late for you to return to the Arcane University and continue on as a dull layabout," said Staubin. He cast a hard look at his colleague and sniffed. "Like the others, they need to be left here. Onwards," he said with a flourish of his hand. The group groaned back into action, and the bump of carts and the thump of boots once more echoed through the Dwarven ruin.

"Hey, Krag," said Erj as he skipped up to him. Erj was easily the youngest researcher in the group and easily the most excited to be there. "Staubin doesn't know what he's talking about. He is here to nod knowingly at some shitty carving and then scuttle back to the Imperial City to get a promotion from the Arch-Mage."

"Well, I mean _I'm_ also hoping to get something from the Arch-Mage. Trevin is retiring soon, and I want his office in the Praxographical Centre. It's got a fireplace!" said Krag endearingly. He smiled to reveal yellow teeth, and his pox-marked cheeks plumped up. Erj couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

"If we can pull this off then you can buy out the whole Praxographical Centre _at least_. We are here to loot this place for every bit of treasure we can. No East Empire Company, no Calcelmo. No no one. Every damn Septim will be ours. Just think of that when Staubin is being a twat." Erj put his arm around Krag, smiled widely and pulled him further on into the tunnel.

The tunnel opened out into a small room covered in sticky white spider webbing. Torchlight bloomed into the cavern and cast streams of orange light on the silk. The procession tumbled in and spread across the room with carts piled against the entrance.

Staubin readied a spell in his hand. "We have found ourselves fortunate enough to stumble into a real spider nest. Bully for us. Be prepared to fight."

Cautiously, the group tiptoed further into the cavern. It was silent except for the sound of dripping water somewhere far away. It stank of rot and death, and the atmosphere was as tense as a catapult rope, but there was no movement.

"Where's the exit?" whispered Krag.

"Staubin, sir, shall my men set up a perimeter?" asked Captain Alethius. He did his best to stop the sound of his boots echoing around the chamber, but it felt like Legion boots were designed to echo and nothing else.

"Get your men to find a way out of here. I don't like it, and I don't want to stay," said Staubin as he searched the room for a tunnel or a door. His heartrate began to rise.

The first to reach the far end of the room was Stromm. He was the biggest of the group and the self-proclaimed best at Destruction magic. He prayed that he would not have to use his talents just yet. He gently pressed his hands to the silk and shuddered as vibrations shot up the taught strings. The room throbbed with the low thrum of the shaking webs. Everyone held their breath as they awaited an attack, but a minute's tense silence brought nothing. Slowly, the group eased. Stromm was feeling brave, and he knocked on the far wall. He was expecting the dull thud of stone, but instead he found metal. The sound rang out across the hall, and everyone jumped. Stromm knew he made a mistake.

It happened faster than anyone could register. An enormous black shadow dove to the floor and then was gone as fast as it came. A smear of blood was all that remained of an Argonian worker. Trembling, those left in the room lifted their heads to the vaulted ceiling where a dark hole pierced the webbing. Four legs clung to the entrance, keeping the black bloated body in place. Two more legs tore the worker apart, and iridescent green mandibles shovelled bloody chunks into a gaping pink maw. Legs and all, the spider was as large as a shire horse.

"Stromm, that better be a door," said Staubin as he inched his way closer to the back wall. No one breathed, and their eyes were glued to the gruesome savagery.

With shaking hands, Stromm pulled apart the webbing to reveal the glimmer of bronze. Pandemonium broke loose. The spider dropped the remains of its meal and hissed violently. It coiled up its hind legs and sprang down to the cavern floor with a thud, its legs splayed. Workers screeched and ran from the beast that towered over them on thick, spear-like legs. It gave chase, pouncing on whatever morsel it could find. Within a few seconds, two workers had been caught and poisoned, their bodies now writhing and frothing on the ground.

"Tear the webbing down now and get us through that door!" screamed Staubin as he rushed over to Stromm's side and desperately began tearing away. "Alethius, keep it back." Staubin hurriedly tore at the silk, and he shuddered as the scuttling of the fat beast echoed around the cave. He could feel its fury through the vibrations that ran along the floor and up his legs.

"Men, to me!" shouted Captain Alethius as he drew his sword and raised his shield. Those that could did the same and tried to create a wall between the spider and the mages. Many of them were trapped on the other side of the room, and Alethius looked away as a plucky soldier tried to make a run for it only to have two fangs stick into his chest. The spider was ravaging workers and soldiers alike. It was faster than it had any right to be, and nothing could stop its insatiable hunger.

The lucky workers that had escaped the spider's path of destruction now began tearing webbing away from the door. Half of it was gone, and they hurried to make their escape.

"Any worker who isn't able to grab supplies doesn't come through this door," said Staubin as he readied fire in his hands.

"But the carts are across the hall," complained a Nord.

"That is your problem to work out. Don't think I'm joking when I say I'd rather kill you than let you be dead weight." A stream of fire made its way up the metal, melting away the webbing to reveal the rest of the door. "Come on," he urged to his fellow mages, and they heaved one half of it open just enough for them to slip through.

The workers that were left saw this happen and ran across the hall. Two were caught by razor sharp legs, but many made it over. Erj hurried them through. Some carried packs on their shoulders, others had bundles of goods in their arms. One even managed to drag a whole cart over. Most, however, had nothing.

Staubin put his hand on the chest of a worker and pushed him back into the room. "I told you the rules."

"Please, this one will die!" pleaded the bedraggled Khajiit.

"Oh, in that case," said Staubin and kicked the worker hard. The Khajiit was sprawled on the ground and didn't get a chance to beg again before the spider pounced and tore him in half.

One by one, soldiers began spilling through the door. Only about half had survived, but it was enough to protect the workers that had proven their worth.

Alethius backed away from the spider which had now turned its eyes on him. Carefully, he placed steady foot after steady foot. It was just him and the spider, which had now raised its front legs and was hissing menacingly. Its eight black eyes blinked at once. Alethius' back hit a closed door. With his shield still raised, he turned his head to be met by a solid bronze wall.

"Staubin, you cowardly bastard," he spat and turned to face the spider once more. All around him lay the dead and dying. He tightened his grip on his sword. "Just you and me now, beasty."

He roared an Imperial battle cry, and the spider dropped its front legs and began running at him. Alethius charged forward and leapt. The two met in a clash of fangs and metal.

* * *

It was a different camp that Aicantar found himself in that night. There was certainly less dread than the night before, and the Karthspire rang with Nords toasting and cheering victory. Many men had died that day, however, and throughout the camp just as many solemn faces silently mourned friends that had sat by their side just one night before. It was melancholic, and Aicantar felt much the same. He stared into the orange fire as he drained the last of the weak stew that Ghorza served.

"Ghorza, do you know how to cook anything that isn't three chunks of boiled mystery meat?" asked Tacitus.

"You say something like that again, and I end your apprenticeship right here, right now," she said and threw her empty bowl onto the grass.

"Nah you won't. Not after I saved your life today."

Ghorza smirked and shook her head.

"Wait, you saved her life? How? Were you attacked?" Aicantar asked, worry spilling from his mouth.

"He did," said Ghorza. "Shot three Forsworn dead with a crossbow. They snuck up on me, and they nearly got me. But Tacitus' great aim saved me."

"Great aim? How do you know how to use a crossbow?" asked Aicantar.

"I hunted for my village back in Cyrodiil. Never got the hang of a bow, but crossbows just kinda make sense to me," said Tacitus.

"Right, drink up," said Ondolemar as he shoved a metal cup into Aicantar's hands. Ghorza and Tacitus leaned over to take theirs.

"In Thongvor's tent I drank wine from a Cyrodilic estate. What kind of wine is this?" asked Aicantar, giving his cup a sniff.

"Cheap wine. It's made for toasting not drinking." He paused for a beat. "But if the Hero of the Battle for the Karthspire desires finer wine then nothing." He put on the breathy air of a self-important servant. "And I mean _nothing_ would bring me greater joy than to fetch him the most exquisite bottle in the camp.

Aicantar wrinkled his nose. "Sorry."

"That is what I thought." Ondolemar stood between those gathered and the fire, raising his cup high.

"I would like to make a toast. A short one. Firstly, to Tacitus, the only apprentice who would willingly save their master's life. And the only smith who knows how to patch up chest wounds from a Hagraven. To Aicantar, for being one of the lucky few to fight a Hagraven and win. To Thongvor Silver-Blood for successfully slaughtering hundreds of Forsworn and making the Reach just that bit safer." Ondolemar haltered and lowered his cup slightly. "And lastly, to five great Elves who lost their lives today in a battle they had no place fighting in." He dropped his head. "I am sorry. To Men, Elves and Orcs!"

The others repeated and as one they drained their cups.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Ondolemar," said Aicantar. "I never even learnt their names, and they died defending us!"

"My Justiciar was called Turendil. I have no idea who the soldiers were. It is not how the Thalmor do things."

"You don't know the name of the guards who died defending you?" asked Tacitus incredulously.

Ondolemar sat on a log and leaned towards Tacitus. "The Dominion does not operate like other entities. I am the Second Emissary to Skyrim and head of a group of Justiciars. If I were to become familiar or attached to my bodyguards then there is a risk that I might put myself in harm's way for them. The Dominion deems that risk unacceptable, and all Emissary bodyguards know it is their duty to die protecting their Emissary without their leader ever learning their names. Of course, this rule is almost always broken, and Justiciars become quite close to their bodyguards, but those that served me were fairly new, and we had not reached that point yet."

"That's evil," spat Ghorza.

"I do not expect an Orc to understand, but I do expect her to show some respect," said Ondolemar, raising his voice.

"Perhaps one day I might respect you, but I will never respect the Dominion as long as it has such pointlessly cruel rules, and you won't make me," said Ghorza. She threw her cup into her empty bowl and kicked it with a clamour as she jumped up from her log. With a snarl, she disappeared into the night.

A tense silence filled the dark. Ondolemar sighed and stared into his cup with the stone face of a stubborn child. His cheekbones and heavy brow cast shadows over his face, and the firelight glinted off his piercing eyes, but it could not warm his cold mood.

"Aicantar, come with me. I heard the soldiers talk about something earlier, and I think you might be able to help," said Tacitus as he grabbed Aicantar by the arm. It took some persuading to get the young Elf moving, as his eye were fixed upon Ondolemar. Aicantar's heart was racing, and he could feel a deep heat rage inside him as he clenched his fists and bit his lips. He gave in to Tacitus, however, and left Ondolemar alone by the dying fire.

The debris was still smouldering as Aicantar returned to the battlefield, led insistently by Tacitus. What remained of the wall still glowed ruby red, breathing bright and dark with the breeze. Ash tornadoes span across the ground in the dull orange glow. The night was black, lit only by twinkling torchlight and burning debris.

"Tacitus, I'm sorry, but I don't think I want to be here," said Aicantar as he cast his eyes forward into the black encampment.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm here with you. Keep your eyes on me, and I'll lead you through," he said with a reassuring smile.

Aicantar couldn't keep his eyes on Tacitus. The horror of battle surrounded him again, and he began to sweat. Soldiers piled the dead into great mangled heaps all around the battlefield, and one by one burning pyres burst into life.

"They're burning the dead!" cried Aicantar. "They're just piled on top of each other and set alight!"

"This isn't Markarth. There's no Hall of the Dead here. Forsworn are burnt and Nords are buried. After their arms and armour are recovered, of course."

"But won't their families want to bury them themselves?" Aicantar asked. His eyes could not be torn away from a Forsworn funeral pyre. He could feel the heat of the melting bodies on his face. He could smell them.

"They will, but they know that's not an option. Their husbands, sons, brothers are in Sovngarde now, and that is good enough. Besides, when feasting in Shor's Hall, you don't really care what happens to your body."

"Why do you know so much about Nords?" That helped to distract him.

"I swear no one listens to me. I grew up in the Jerrals. Sure, it was Cyrodiil, but there were more Nords than Imperials up there. Ah, we're getting close."

Tacitus had led them to the base of the towering structure that straddled the Karth River. It was scorched and bruised, and blood was smeared across its walkways, but it was as stable as it always had been. It loomed over them like an ancient monolith, gently creaking as it swayed in the breeze. Doorways had been blown out and several huts now smouldered, but its greatest injury was a red flag that flapped high above it, the pole like a spear through its skull.

'It's just across here," said Tacitus as he took a careful step onto the crooked walkway. It was peppered with holes, and they both feared falling through.

"I always liked the sound of water. You can't escape it in Markarth, but falling asleep to the rumble of waterfalls was always nice."

"I have to fall asleep to Ghorza and Moth snoring. Probably quite a similar sound, actually." That made Aicantar smile.

A few careful steps later, and they emerged from the shadows of the construct onto the far bank at the base of the bulwark. Before them, a torchlit path led up a shallow slope and to a burning fire, around which shadows clustered ominously. Tacitus practically skipped up the path. The promise of a warm fire was too much for him, and Aicantar had to run to keep up.

"Lady Eydis, please forgive me for interrupting, but I have brought a mage to help you," said Tacitus as he approached the fire.

"Who might you be?" Lady Eydis replied. All eyes were on them.

"My name is Tacitus. Smith apprentice to Ghorza gra-Bagol of Markarth. This is Aicantar of Markarth. Nephew to Court Wizard Calcelmo," he said with polite airs.

"Ah, you brought me the Elf! Yes, we could use your help. Come with me."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Eydis," Aicantar managed.

"Nonsense!" She punched Aicantar's arm. She was tall and strong, and she rather intimidated both Tacitus and Aicantar. Perhaps it was the battered chainmail armour or the giant claymore or the intense stare, but something made her seem more powerful than most minor nobles. "You killed a Hagraven today. The pleasure is mine. I heard of mages besting them in magic, and I know Thongvor Silver-Blood stuck one through with his sword, but I never heard of someone bashing their face in with a rock." Aicantar was silent. "Apologies, Aicantar. It must have been quite an ordeal, and I didn't mean to paint such a… vivid picture of your trials. Just know that Old Hroldan thanks you for your courage."

"It was not cour… what is this?" Aicantar trailed off as they approached the source of concern.

"An altar," said Lady Eydis. "Thongvor asked me to find out if it's dangerous. I have no bloody clue, and I want your thoughts."

Aicantar approached the solid black altar. It was cut from the very ground itself and felt like dark magic. It was of no stone that Aicantar had ever seen, and no light could penetrate it. It was a hole to somewhere dark and unforgiving, but as Aicantar got closer, nothing stirred. It had seen much evil, but it could harm no one by itself.

"What happened here?" asked Lady Eydis.

"A sacrifice," whispered Aicantar. "The power that came from this ritual would have been immense." A man sat slumped on the altar, his head lolled forward and arms limp. His skin was grey and pallid and covered in swirling white scars. Thick furs clung to his arms and tree trunk legs, but the most notable thing about him was his size. He was twice as tall as Aicantar at least. "Is that a giant?"

"It is. I've only seen a few, but never in the Reach," said Lady Eydis as she approached the altar. Her guards lingered nervously behind her. "It's a small one, though."

"That's a small one? I only come up to its waist!" exclaimed Tacitus.

Aicantar stood looking up at the giant. It had the face of an angry Nord and the ears of an Elf. A bulbous nose and thin mouth were framed by long brown hair that fell from its head and chin. He put a hand on its knee, and the giant tilted back. Aicantar jumped away as the enormous body crashed down onto the black altar with a thud. He choked as he saw that its torso had been split open and emptied.

"I don't think this place is dangerous. Dark and evil, sure, but with no Hagraven to perform rituals, it can't do anything," said Aicantar.

"What's with the masks and wood?" asked Lady Eydis. Scattered around the sacrificed giant were wooden masks of feminine faces with large almond eyes and kind smiles. Light brows flowed into flat, wide noses that appeared almost cat-like, and wooden antlers protruded from their foreheads. Lady Eydis picked one up and stared into the empty eyes.

Aicantar crouched down and inspected the heaps of wood that lay in front of the altar. He rummaged around in the tangle of branches and pulled one up to inspect. His eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. "Lady Eydis, that's not a mask." He held up the branch he was holding, complete with wooden joints and sharp talons. "I think these were Spriggans."

Lady Eydis laughed. "You seem like a smart kid, but Spriggans haven't been seen in the Reach for generations."

Aicantar frowned. He placed the arm on the ground and grabbed one of the faces and put it above the arm. Tacitus saw what he was doing and rummaged in the piles of wood, pulling out another arm and a leg. Lady Eydis' mirth faded as she saw the body taking shape. Soon, a hollow torso had been found, and a one-legged Spriggan body lay splayed on the grass.

"They're no myth. They were slaughtered here," said Tacitus. The body was slender and oddly muscular for something made of wood, but the womanly shape of the torso and face could not be mistaken. Talons splayed from long arms, and twisted roots replaced feet, but it was certainly no bundle of firewood. Lady Eydis carefully placed the Spriggan face back onto the black altar.

"The stories say that Spriggans can't be killed. They are the will of Kynareth herself, and who could kill an aspect of a Divine?" said Lady Eydis.

"I read in an old book that while they're formidable foes, the best warriors and mages can take them down," said Aicantar. "If a sword can kill them, then a Hagraven certainly can."

Tacitus' eyes were cast away from the group and the Spriggan corpse and to a glimmer of light on altar. He reached over and grabbed the hilt of a skinny dagger. "And this is what will do it." The dagger was of no metal that Tacitus had ever seen, and the green-tinted crooked blade made him suspect that it was no metal at all. Engraved vines and leaves ran up the hilt and along the blade that narrowed to a sharper point than Tacitus thought possible. Even Ghorza could not smith something a fraction as sharp. "Aicantar, what kind of magic is this? Even I can feel the power."

"It was either used in the ritual or was the purpose of it. Either way, I wouldn't hold it for long," said Aicantar, staring down the length of the blade.

Lady Eydis looked more concerned than ever and ordered one of her guards to pull off his jerkin. He handed it nervously to Tacitus who hastily wrapped it around the green blade. Aicantar breathed out in relief.

"I'm gonna keep hold of this," said Tacitus. No one protested. "See what I can find out about it."

"This place is not dangerous, but we should do what we can to clear this altar of evil," said Aicantar.

"You heard him. Burn the bodies," said Lady Eydis to her men.

"No," said Tacitus quickly. "Bury the Spriggans. It seems right that they shouldn't burn," he said.

Lady Eydis nodded. "You heard him. These spirits deserve better than this, but we can honour them with a proper burial. Bury the giant too and mark the grave with the same symbols as on his skin. His people should be able to find him if they want." She turned to Tacitus and Aicantar. "Rest easy knowing that the world is better for us being here."

* * *

The Court of Markarth had made an impressive dent in Jarl Igmund's personal supply of alcohol, and now merriment flowed as easily as wine. Raerek had got so merry in fact that he now snored loudly in his chair. Most of their manners had dissolved into their drinks, and the conversation had suffered for it. Jarl Igmund now sat cross-legged on the floor, giggling into a cushion at Lady Sungard's raunchy tale.

"And that was only our wedding night. To think that the poor sap actually thought he had deflowered Lady Dalia Battle-Born. Suffice to say there's more than a few men in Whiterun who thought they had deflowered me," said Lady Sungard. She was perched on the arm of a sofa, waving her glass and free hand animatedly. The group roared into bouts of laughter which devolved into childish giggles as Faleen snorted into her mead.

"Do you ever miss Whiterun?" asked Calcelmo as he wiped a tear from his eye.

"Oh, I certainly used to. The Reach was a strange and terrifying place, but in the end I fell in love with my husband, and Fort Sungard became my home. It was Jarl Hrolfdir, however, that made the Reach and Markarth a welcome place for me. I will always be grateful to him for that. But as for Whiterun, I cut ties with them many, many years ago. When my father died, I expected to become the Matriarch of Clan Battle-Born, but no! Imagine my shock when his will named my oaf of a brother, Olfrid – Oafrid as I always called him – as Patron. On that day, I knew who I was to my family. Nothing but cattle to be sold so that someone could watch over Whiterun Hold from the South. So I became Lady Dalia Sungard in full, and Clan Battle-Born were given no favours for it. The rest is old news to you. My husband and I lived happily for many years, and we had two beautiful children. Then just over a year ago, a clan of Forsworn overwhelmed Fort Sungard's defences. My husband and son died so that Betrid and I could escape." Lady Sungard sighed deeply and stewed uncomfortably in the silence that followed her open heart. "Goodness, how I ran with such a simple question. To think it was me of all people who brought the mood down! Igmund," she called and pointed at the Jarl who stared up at her. "You're still young. Why don't you have a wife?"

It was Faleen, surprisingly, who found that the funniest. She leaned over the same sofa that Lady Sungard was perched on, her steel breastplate uncharacteristically discarded, and her muscular torso covered only in a tight linen blouse. Lady Sungard smiled confusedly at her mirth but turned back to Jarl Igmund.

"I'm not that young. My hair's going grey," he said simply. His cheeks started to blush.

"Nonsense. Your hair is greying because of your job, but you're only in your thirties, right?"

"That's right."

"Don't be coy now, Igmund. You're young, handsome, wealthy and powerful. Where is your wife? Or at least where is the queue of young women pretending they're virgins and are saving themselves only for you?" Lady Sungard stared intensely at him, savouring a shallow sip of golden wine.

Jarl Igmund clenched his jaw and refused to meet her eye. His palms sweat, and his head span, but the drink made him feel like doing something stupid. "For the love of Mara, fine." He looked up at her almost accusingly. "I don't like women."

"Bloody knew it," whispered Moth. Calcelmo and Faleen were silent.

"Now, that is _delicious_ ," said Lady Sungard, and her mouth opened into a wide grin that wrinkled her entire face. "Did you lot know about this?" she pointed a finger around the room. Moth shook his head, but Faleen and Calcelmo both nodded.

"My uncle doesn't know, and I want to keep it that way," stuttered Jarl Igmund. His eyes were wide and watery, and his face was bright red.

"Oh, darling, I won't tell a soul if that's your wish. I could never betray you like that. The question still stands, however. Why don't you have a husband? I understand that the Temple of Mara allows such things."

Jarl Igmund laughed. "The Temple of Mara is not the problem. Who cares if the baker boy and the miner's son get married? The baker still bakes, and the miner still mines, but a Jarl must continue a dynasty. They must marry a woman and sire heirs. It would be outrageous and scandalous should I reject that. I'd be dragged off the Mournful Throne before the ceremony finished."

"You are rejecting it right now, dear, amongst a great many other things. As long as you refuse a wife, you are rejecting what is expected of you. I find it hard to believe that Jarl Igmund of Markarth and the Reach, Marquess of the West, would defy both the Stormcloaks and the Legion, risk war and ruin upon his Hold, and face the executioners block should he fail. But he would not marry a man." Lady Sungard's face was kind and wise, and she certainly looked like a mother to Jarl Igmund.

"This rebellion is only a few days old, and my first thought when starting it was not of marriage. Perhaps one day, but not today. For now, let the baker and miner be happy. Let the minor Banners and Thanes have their fun. But Jarls must still bow to the rules." His face was sad and sunken.

"Such as the case may be, but just because you haven't married doesn't mean you haven't had some fun." She winked wickedly.

"Now that is my business, not yours," he said with a grin

She raised her hands in surrender. "That tells me enough. Good for you. Look at us gossiping and sharing secrets. We're the thickest friends in all the Reach."

"I've drank nearly a whole crate of ale, so I'm feeling emotional, but that could be our greatest weapon," said Jarl Igmund.

"You sound like a children's story," said Calcelmo.

"Maybe, but they have to have some truth. Thonar Silver-Blood is the big-bad, and we're the bunch of rag-tag adventurers who'll take him down." He grinned stupidly.

"I hope that's not how the bards tell it," said Moth. "An Orc has no place in childish fairy tales."

"Yeah you do. You're usually the big-bad, but this time an Orc gets to be a hero," said Jarl Igmund.

Moth grunted and heaved himself out of his chair. He stretched to ceiling, rippling bulging muscles and popping aching joints. "I'm going to bed before you try to turn me into the damsel in distress."

"Goodnight, Princess Moth," cooed Jarl Igmund. Moth tried to hide his smile.

"Goodnight, all. An old Elf like me needs all the sleep he can get," said Calcelmo.

"I'll come too," said Faleen hastily.

"Wonderful," said Lady Sungard. "With them gone, you can tell me about all the young men you've ravished." Faleen closed the door as fast as she could. She didn't bother to return for her armour.

Moth cast a glance down the corridor they had found themselves in. "So you both knew he was a pansy and neither of you told me?"

"Don't be rude," said Calcelmo sternly.

Faleen put a hand on her hilt. "I'm not going to have to teach you a lesson tonight, am I Moth?"

"I'm just saying I wish people would tell me shit. Got no problem with what he does, but if I'm gonna risk my neck for this mission then I need to know shit." He shrugged and rubbed his thick black beard. "Plus side is Ghorza owes me fifty gold now." He walked away without another word.

"Our dear smith is a strange fellow," said Calcelmo.

"No stranger than the rest of us. Listen, I didn't know Jarl Igmund had trusted you with that," said Faleen, her deep brown eyes probing Calcelmo's orange.

"Nor I you. It's nice to be reminded how loyal you are," said Calcelmo with a bashful smile.

"I never could work you out, Calcelmo, but I see you now. You are a man of honour."

"An Elf of honour. There are few things I dedicate myself to other than my work, but I love Jarl Igmund, and I am forever loyal to him."

Faleen smiled and put her hands on his shoulders. "Whoever you love is very lucky indeed." She gently kissed his cheek and smiled brilliantly as his cheeks turned pink. "Goodnight, my Elf of honour."

* * *

A great feast sprawled across the roughly carved wooden table in front of Thongvor's marquee. Fruits and cheeses were stacked on boards, huge tureens of thick steaming stews lined the sides, baked breads and tarts sat on platters decorated with snowberries, and a giant roasted hog lay spatchcocked in the centre. The celebration had only just begun, but the table was already assaulted with grease smears and wine stains. A foaming puddle of ale gently trickled down the table towards the platter of cold meats. There were no chairs, and those that Thongvor had deemed important enough to gather around him were spread across the clearing, sitting on clusters of logs or on the damp ground itself. A roaring bonfire cast burning orange light and dark shadows around the clearing. Ondolemar chose to stick to the shadows, and he watched with contempt as Thongvor paraded across the clearing, putting on a performance for all that were gathered.

"Lady Eydis, Lord Soljund. Join me," Thongvor shouted from the warmest seats by the bonfire. "I lost a great many men today. I need to know how you fared. Is there even an army left after this?" The nobles sat down by him. Ondolemar strained his ears to listen.

"We suffered less than you did, but that trick the Hagraven did with the river… many of our men were still crossing. About a quarter didn't make it," said Lord Soljund.

Thongvor swore loudly. "I've never come this close to losing. Those numbers… never have I suffered such losses."

"That's what happens when magic is used in warfare. Mages are dangerous. With a flick of their wrist, they turn an honourable battle into a slaughter," said Lady Eydis.

"Hagravens aren't just mages. I was in the Legion during the Great War, and a mage saved my life more than once. Of course, more often than not it was a mage trying to kill me, but magic has its proper place. Hagravens do not," said Thongvor

"Regardless, it's gonna take us a long time to recover from this, and at any moment we might have to march to war or defend our homes," said Lord Soljund.

"Come now, my friend, we know that won't happen. Jarl Igmund will never get me to fight for the Imperials, and if Ulfric Stormcloak marches on the Reach then I'll be marching along beside him. Straight to the Mournful Throne," said Thongvor with a wicked grin.

"Thongvor, that's treason," whispered Lady Eydis with a hiss. She looked around nervously.

"Treason against whom? Elisif? Tullius? They'll never lead Skyrim. There is one true High King, and his name is Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and the Bear of Markarth, and I know you agree with me. Lady Eydis, you are the Thane of Old Hroldan, the very site where Tiber Septim began his empire by slaughtering the Reachmen scum. You of all people must know Ulfric's cause is just."

"You know what lies in my heart."

Thongvor smiled. "Aye, and soon we shall have our chance to prove it, but enough of this. There are celebrations to be had and a toast to make! Where is that Elf?"

Aicantar carried over a carafe of wine to where Ondolemar sat, shrouded in shadow, and staring at Thongvor. He held out the carafe to Ondolemar.

"What is this?" asked the older Elf.

"A peace offering. It is not your fault that the Dominion is the way it is. I'm sorry," he said.

"I was mistaken to think you could ever be one of us. Thank you for reminding me of that before I took it too far," he said coldly and snatched the carafe.

"Ondolemar-"

"Don't try. Thank you for the wine, and I hope to see you around when we're back in Markarth."

Aicantar's face was pained, and he opened his mouth to reply, but Thongvor got their first.

"Aicantar, come," he said and grabbed his arm. He pulled him to the centre of the clearing and called everyone to attention. Captains, standard-bearers, heads of various sections of the army and finally Lord Soljund and Lady Eydis gathered and stood in a rough circle around Thongvor and Aicantar. Ondolemar remained where he was.

"My friends, we won a great victory against the Forsworn today. One of their strongholds now lies in the hands of the Silver-Blood family, and the entire Reach is safer now. From the Karthspire, the Forsworn could have launched attacks from the very heart of the Reach, but now the great Nords of Skyrim have that heart, and we won't waste this opportunity. We shall fortify this land, and it will be a great bastion in the war against the Forsworn." He paused as the crowd cheered. "But this victory came at a dire cost. Far too many of our brothers fell so that we could defeat this enemy, and it is a heavy burden that I must bear. Their deaths were almost in vain, however, and many more of us would have died if not for the actions of one young Elf. I present to you now Aicantar of Markarth, the nephew of Court Wizard Calcelmo. When the Hagraven attacked, he could have run. He had every chance to escape her, but he didn't. Instead, he swallowed his fear and attacked when no one else could. With my own two eyes, I saw this Elf cave her skull in with a rock, and I saw the strength, courage and ferocity that only the best of us have." He took a moment to look Aicantar in the eye. He turned back towards the crowd. "Who you see before you is not Aicantar of Markarth. I present to you, Lords of the Reach, Aicantar Hag-Slayer!" Thongvor grabbed Aicantar's arm and raised it to the sky.

The roar that erupted around the camp shook him, and the sound of Thongvor shouting in his ear made his buzz. His face was red, and his hand shook, but he smiled as chants of "Hag-Slayer!" pounded the air around him. He couldn't stop smiling. For the first time in his life he felt proud, and he was almost glad to be there.

Horns rang out across the camp. Thongvor lowered his arm and let go of Aicantar.

"Riders at the camp! They say they're friendly, sir!" called out the watchman from his tower.

"And who are they?" yelled back Thongvor. Aicantar took this opportunity to slink away Thongvor. His moment had passed.

Muffled shouts were heard as the watchman yelled down at the riders. A moment passed before the watchman turned back towards Thongvor. "They say they're friends of the Dragonborn, sir." Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"Make them dismount but let them through." Thongvor nodded to those around him, and silently people began to gather their weapons.

From the shadowy walkway that emerged into the tent clearing came two figures. One was a tall middle-aged woman with fair hair pulled back into a slick ponytail and thin lips pursed into a worried frown. Her eyes spoke of a life fighting, and her armour said the same thing. It was made of dark steel forged into dozens of interlocking plates that ran down her chest and arms. No one gathered had seen anything like it. The other was an old man with thin hair and a full white beard. His high forehead was deeply wrinkled, and his shoulders were hunched, but his glistening blue eyes were young and alert.

As they walked into the light, Ondolemar jumped up from his log and stumbled as his thoughts outran his body. His mouth hung open.

"Approach, friends. I am Lord Thongvor Silver-Blood of Markarth and Bleakwind Bluff. Who might you be?" His tone was friendly, but his hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

"Ah, Jarl Thongvor Silver-Blood, it is a pleasure," said the old man in a voice heavily weathered by age. "I am Esbern, and this is my colleague Delphine."

"Thongvor, these are Blades! They are enemy number one of the Thalmor and the Aldmeri Dominion, and I demand their arrest," blurted Ondolemar with a face of thunder. No one turned to look at him."

"Jarl Silver-Blood?" asked Thongvor softly.

"Yes," replied Delphine with a furrowed brow. "I'm sorry, but I don't understand the confusion. The armistice signed at High Hrothgar handed the Reach over to the Stormcloaks and instated you as Jarl. Both you and Igmund should have received letters days ago."

"I never received a letter. Is this some kind of joke?" Thongvor gritted his teeth.

"I assure you this is no joke. We were at the accords. We set up the damn thing! Jarl Thongvor, listen carefully. The Stormcloaks have the Reach, and you are Her Jarl. If you did not get a letter, either it was intercepted or the messenger had a Forsworn related accident," growled Esbern.

Thongvor drew his sword and pointed it at Esbern, his body shaking. Delphine drew hers and jumped between them. They stared each other dead in the eye for a painful moment. Eventually, Thongvor broke. With a scream he swivelled around and brought his sword down on the table, snapping it in two. Food and drink sprayed into the air.

"I believe you. I fucking believe you, by the Nine! Igmund, that traitorous worm. He knew!" Thongvor was wild. He threw his sword to the ground and began pointing at anyone he could see. "He got the damned letter, and that's why he sent me out here to this cesspit so I couldn't throw him off his throne. And that Legate too. He must've known. And the whole fucking Court of Markarth." His eyes were wide with madness. "Did they think I wouldn't find out that I'm now Jarl? Did they think I wouldn't march this army straight back to Markarth and take my city? Well, that's what I'll do. I will burn Markarth to the ground with Igmund and his whole damn court inside for this treachery."

Those surrounding Jarl Thongvor were silent. They were as shocked by the news as him, but they were unsettled by his rage. No one dared approach him, and Delphine still had her sword drawn. Thongvor breathed heavily and wiped fresh sweat from his forehead.

"But for now… for now, imprison those Elves and the quartermaster. They must have known about this." He looked around for Aicantar, and then to where Ondolemar had shouted from. Both had vanished. "Those Thalmor snakes! Find them and bring them to me." No one moved. "Now!"

* * *

"We have to go," hissed Ondolemar as he and Aicantar ran up to Ghorza and Tacitus.

"What do you mean?" asked Ghorza, looking up from the fire.

"No time. Follow us or die." Ondolemar was already running away.

Tacitus looked at the fear in Aicantar's eyes. "Ghorza, we should listen to him." Torchlight and shouts began filling the camp.

They ran. They didn't stop to grab weapons or supplies. They just ran. They could feel the search party at their backs, and they dared not look behind them as they dashed between tents, avoiding torchlight and pathways. Ondolemar led them, his chest burning from a mix of his wounds and lack of air, but he didn't slow down. Horns cut through the dark, followed by answers all around them. More fires burst into life, and pounding boots threatened to surround them.

They burst out into the cool dark night. Tents melted away as they left the camp, and the light vanished. Tacitus risked a glance back at a swarming camp full of life. Their pursuers were given away by bobbing orange lights, but none had left the camp yet.

Grass turned to solid stone as they hit the road, and the fear truly set in. Left led them back to camp, and right led them into the dark night. Forward led them to drowning in the Karth River. No decision was needed, and they continued their run eastward towards Falkreath, but dread filled Ondolemar as he saw the hopelessness of their situation. This part of the Reach was a deep but narrow chasm with room for nought but the Karth River and the road itself. He kept running regardless.

Boots on the road. Hooves on the road. They ran faster. Ghorza took the lead. "This way," she shouted at the group, and though their legs ached and their lungs burnt, they managed to run that bit faster.

They could hear their pursuers gaining ground. They could almost feel the beat of horses' hooves vibrate along the cobbles. Tacitus had no air left. Ondolemar's chest felt like it would burst open, and Aicantar's legs buckled. They rounded a corner, and suddenly Aicantar felt his feet leave the road. He felt a hand grab his neck. Twigs and thorns scraped his face as Ghorza pushed him through gorse bushes and long weeds, and then his back was on the ground, and his eyes looked up at the stars. He tried to sit up, but Ghorza's meaty hand pushed him down. She held a finger to her lips. Tacitus turned his head and saw Tacitus and Ondolemar pressed to the ground as well.

A moment later, and two torchlit riders on horseback pounded past their position, but the group was hidden by the hedgerow. The horses disappeared down the road, and soon the sound of hooves was nothing but an echo replaced by the distant but fast approaching sound of marching boots.

"This way," whispered Ghorza as she crawled away from the road. The others joined her on their hands and knees. They were all surprised to find themselves crawling up an unpaved but well-worn mountain path.

"Ghorza, where are you taking us?" asked Aicantar.

"To find some friends."


	6. Six

The sun was only just beginning to warm the grey cobbles of Solitude as Legate Emmanuel Admand pushed open the doors to Castle Dour. It had been a long and dangerous ride from Markarth dodging Forsworn and vicious wildlife, but he had made it. Just. He was covered in sweat and mud, and he could smell the stench that drifted off him as he stomped into the entrance hall. He didn't care, however. His only aim was to find General Tullius.

The interior of Castle Dour matched what one would expect from the seat of Imperial power in Skyrim. It was grey and efficient with the halls decorated in little but bare stone and dim chandeliers. The only colour came from the regimented banners of the Imperial Dragon. Legate Emmanuel felt at ease in such a militaristic place.

"I need to see General Tullius," he barked at the guards who stood either side of the great hall.

Seeing Legate Emmanuel's thick steel armour and red cloak, both imprinted with the emblem of the Empire, they silently opened the door. Legate Emmanuel didn't even have to slow down.

"Legate, I did not expect you back so soon," said General Tullius as he raised himself from leaning against a large wooden table laden with charts and maps. He was an imposing man, tall and dark skinned with military cropped grey hair. Weary brown eyes sat above a large, bumped nose, and his tanned leather armour, reinforced with steel, was shaped to display rippling muscle. A golden dragon roared from the centre of his chest. "Where is Igmund? Did you take him to the Blue Palace already?"

Legate Emmanuel removed his helmet and held it in the crook of his arm. He bowed, his steel skirt swaying. "General, I think it best we talk privately."

General Tullius' face darkened. His voice lowered to a strained growl. "Out. Everybody. Not you, Rikke." The rabble of pristine Legates and Tribunes quickly gathered their work and scrambled down corridors and up stairways. All except for a tall Nord woman with armour more battered than the rest. She approached the table and stared at Legate Emmanuel with arms crossed.

Legate Emmanuel swallowed. General Tullius had always frightened him. He was a man of law and an unwavering sense of justice. If he deemed punishment necessary, then it came swiftly and without compromise. "General, there is a situation in Markarth."

"Speak plainly and exactly, Legate," General Tullius said.

"Jarl Igmund would not relinquish his throne. He does not accept the terms of the accord at High Hrothgar, and he does not recognise the dragon crisis as a threat to Markarth or the Reach. He does not recognise Thongvor Silver-Blood as Jarl and will not allow Ulfric Stormcloak control of the Reach. Sir."

Legate Rikke unfolded her arms and pressed her hands onto the table. She leaned forward, and her eyes drilled into Legate Emmanuel. General Tullius remained motionless.

"Thank you for telling me, Legate."

"Is that it? What do we do, General?" blurted Legate Emmanuel.

"The peace treaty was a long shot at best, and I am not willing to waste good men in enforcing it. Let Igmund stay in Markarth. Our men are marching on the Rift as we speak, and by the time this news reaches Ulfric it will be ours." He turned back towards the table.

"You'll look like a back-stabber and a coward, General." This came from Legate Rikke.

"So? This way I get the Reach and the Rift. Let them call me a coward when I'm laying siege to their castles."

"You know well enough by now that honour is everything to a Nord, sir. Even our strongest supporters will have doubt in their hearts, and those who doubt now will denounce you. Everything that Ulfric is spewing about you will be proven true, and we will have lost this war before it truly began." Her voice was hard as nails.

"You want me to hand the Rift back over with my apologies? You know I can't do that."

"Actually, we're facing a different problem here," Legate Emmanuel interjected. "Jarl Igmund will not allow Ulfric to take the Reach, but he also no longer recognises Imperial authority over him, his people or his land. In his eyes, the truce was a great treachery."

"A second rebellion? And he thinks we're the traitors?" spat General Tullius.

"With all due respect, General, you did oust one of you staunchest supporters from his home without allowing him a voice at the negotiating table," said Legate Rikke.

"There was no time to gather the Jarls, and you know that. The Dragonborn made it very clear to us both."

"That may be so, but he has committed everything to us, and then he received a single letter telling him to abandon his home for the enemy. His honour won't allow it."

"Your Jarls with their damn honour. I can't reward his tantrum, but neither do I have the men to punish him for it."

"Sir, this isn't just a tantrum. We have lost control of the Reach in its entirety. Its men and silver are gone," said Legate Emmanuel.

"You're right, of course, but this is not the problem you think it is," said Tullius as he pointed to a wide map of Skyrim. "This is not our betrayal but Igmund's. We keep hold of the Rift and send a negotiating force to Markarth. You Nords can't call me treacherous when I'm trying to uphold my end of the bargain. If Ulfric wants to march into the Reach to deal with Igmund then let him."

"So he'll just get away with it?" asked Rikke. "That sends an incredibly dangerous message."

"For now. We have no choice."

"And what of the Dragonborn? He was the one who needed this truce to stop the dragon crisis," said Legate Emmanuel.

"He will have returned to Whiterun days ago. How much planning is needed to capture a dragon in a castle built to capture dragons? It's in his hands now."

"And our soldiers from the Reach?" asked Legate Rikke.

That gave something for General Tullius to think about. He carried on staring at the maps before sighing and turning to his Legates. "How many?"

"Nearly a thousand, sir. If we send them back, it's likely they'll only support Igmund and exacerbate the situation," said Legate Emmanuel.

"Then we'll ban them for returning. We'll keep them guarding the borders," said General Tullius.

"That will cause dissent in the ranks. If Jarl Igmund is half as smart as we are then he would have already warned them. They might be convinced to rebel too," said Legate Rikke.

"Then put them to death for treason. Deserters are not tolerated in the Legion," said General Tullius.

"That's a powerful message, sir. But these men swore no oath to the Legion, only to Jarl Igmund, and that says nothing of his Banners. To punish them as Legionnaires would be nothing short of slaughter," said Legate Emmanuel.

"Do we not punish the Stormcloaks in the same way? Their Jarl has rebelled against the Empire, and to join him is to invite death. If we have sent any message during this war, it is that," said General Tullius. "It is decided. Emmanuel, return to Markarth and convince Igmund to settle down and change his mind if you can. Your cohort has returned from Whiterun, so take them with you."

"I thought it would just be a negotiating force," said Legate Emmanuel.

"And what better way to negotiate than with an army behind you? A warning, Legate. You and Rikke can spout honour and discontent at me all day long, but our duty is to reunify Skyrim, and one way or another we need the Reach to do that. If diplomacy doesn't work, then show him the blade. And should the Dragonborn succeed in his mission and Ulfric come knocking on the gates of Markarth, you will have to fight him," said General Tullius.

"Should I also rid the Reach of the Forsworn while I'm at it? Perhaps they could form a nice line, and I can behead them one by one."

"What is this, Legate? I will not tolerate this talk."

"The Reach cannot be tamed with a single cohort, and it certainly isn't enough to take on Ulfric Stormcloak when an entire Legion failed."

"He has a point, sir," said Legate Rikke.

"We shall not sit idly by, Legate. The moment the truce is over, we will launch a mission that Ulfric can't ignore. The Stormcloaks will be occupied, but we'd be fools to think Ulfric won't make a play for Markarth. Just be ready, Legate. And take a gods damned bath. Dismissed."

"Sir," barked Legate Emmanuel and stamped his foot on the hard stone. He straightened his body and placed his helmet on his head. With a swivel, he marched from the room.

"Damn Bretons," muttered General Tullius. "Almost as bad as Nords."

* * *

It had been many years since Laila Law-Giver had completed such a detailed tour of her hold. In fact, it hadn't been since her coronation that she had visited all of her Banners, and now she returned to them in much darker days. She had dutifully waited for Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak to return from High Hrothgar, and as she sat in the halls of Ivarstead, she never imagined that he would ask of her what he did. To hand over her hold and her home to the Imperials and Maven Black-Briar was close to the ultimate sacrifice for the cause, but how could she refuse? She could not allow herself to commit treason against her High King regardless of what her loyalty would cost her. Thus, she was left with no choice but to give her Lords and Thanes the ultimatum that Ulfric demanded.

"Lord Denmund, I understand this is a very difficult thing that we are asking of you but know we would never put in you in this position if it weren't necessary," said Laila softly and calmly. She was in the halls of Faldar's Tooth, one of the greatest fortresses in the Rift. It was bare and militaristic, but not without its comforts. A stiff mead, a soft chair and a warm fire made the conversation that bit easier.

"My Jarl, is there no other way? Are these really my only options?" asked Lord Denmund. He had entered his golden years many moons ago, but he still insisted he could swing a sword with the best of them, despite a quivering hand and a cloudy eye.

"Unfortunately, this is the only way to ensure the dragon crisis is dealt with. We live in an incredible time where not only have dragons returned to Skyrim, but so has a dragonborn to deal with them. We must do all we can to help him. And I am no longer your Jarl. That honour now rests on the shoulders of Maven Black-Briar."

Lord Denmund turned his white eyes to the silent man who sat next to Laila. "Jarl Ulfric, what do you say?"

Ulfric Stormcloak removed his hand from where it was absently rubbing his brown beard. With an intense stare from his piercing blue eyes, he spoke in a deep, resonating, gravely growling voice. "Lord Denmund, your choice is simple. Either stay in the Rift and pledge peace to Maven Black-Briar or leave and stay as an honoured guest in Windhelm." No one could deny the respect that Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak demanded.

"Stay and lose my honour or leave and lose my home. Is that a choice you could make?" he asked accusingly.

"Are you questioning my own honour when I have sacrificed everything for Skyrim and Her people?" Ulfric's voice boomed throughout the hall. "I left my home to fight in the Great War and was imprisoned. I left my home to free Markarth from the Forsworn and was imprisoned. My own father died, and I remained imprisoned, but I kept my honour throughout. I do not offer you a jail cell, but it can be arranged."

"I did not have the luxury of a decision, but I shoulder my burden with honour," said Laila. "When I ascended to the Jarldom of the Rift, I made an oath to do right by Her citizens. By leaving my home and handing Riften over the Imperials, I am fulfilling that oath, but do not forget the one you made to me."

"A thousand Imperial soldiers march through the Rift as we speak. If you stay and reject the authority of Maven Black-Briar, they will be more than happy to drag you from this hall," growled Jarl Ulfric.

Lord Denmund blinked his milky eyes just once. "And the other Lords?"

"Most have chosen to leave. They gather their households as we speak, and I am not surprised at who has chosen to stay. Lady Ghrest has always been distant from the rule of Riften. Perhaps correctly she thinks little will change in Ivarstead, and all of her men are already official Stormcloaks under Jarl Ulfric's command. What use would it be for her to leave too? Goldenglow may as well be owned by Maven, and Lord Aringoth would never leave his islands at my behest."

"That's what you get for letting Elves hold titles," grumbled Jarl Ulfric.

"And the witches of Darklight Tower care little for who is Jarl in Riften. I am happy to let it stay that way," said Laila.

"So, what do you think I will do?" asked Lord Denmund simply.

"You will leave," she said quickly. "You have always been a man of great honour, and I know you have never been a supporter of Maven's."

Lord Denmund smiled a wrinkled and almost toothless grin. "So you do know those that serve you. For my oaths I made and the love I have for you, Laila, and for your great cause, Jarl Ulfric, I shall hand over Faldar's Tooth. You can expect me in Windhelm several days after yourselves. Praise Talos."

It was a cool morning that greeted Laila and Jarl Ulfric as their retinue trundled out of Faldar's Tooth and into the wild beech forest that stretched the length of the Rift. Autumn was always her favourite season, and she smiled distantly from the window of her carriage as fiery trees swam by and the constant rain of burning leaves created a warm haze across the land. They rounded a corner, and Faldar's Tooth appeared beyond the trees behind them. Its namesake soared into the air, a tower of almost impossible height that pierced the morning sky. It was built by Faldar, Lord Denmund's ancestor, to be the tallest structure in the Rift, but he died before his vision was realised. About halfway up, the construction had faltered, and instead of a tower a single high wall climbed up from the completed levels. Wooden floors had been hastily slatted into the gap to create open walkways and watchtowers that looked over the entire forest. It had become known by the locals as the Tooth and was one the Rift's greatest landmarks. For that reason, it had never been completed.

"I hope this pays off," she said absentmindedly.

"It will. We needed the Reach for its silver and its symbol, and the only trade the Imperials would accept was the Rift. Besides, the Dragonborn was right to call us to High Hrothgar. The dragons are a menace that cannot be ignored for the good of all people of Skyrim. Should Alduin win then this whole war would be for nought," said Jarl Ulfric. Laila turned from the window and stared at her king. He certainly painted the picture of a ruler, with dark steel armour carved in the ancient style and a thick grey cloak of bear pelt than ran from his shoulders to his boots. It was his brilliant lightning blue eyes, however, that set him apart. Behind them lay years of fury and fighting, and the creases around them spoke of the great burden he bore. Laila was rather surprised that his hair was still brown and hadn't turned grey or fallen out.

"Will I ever get my home back?"

"We will win this war, and you shall have Riften back. I cannot promise when that will be, but one day you shall march into the Rift with your head held high and take back your home. And when that day comes, you will have the full might of Windhelm behind you."

"I think we're getting close," said Laila as her head returned to the window. Water brimmed under her eyes. The cart rumbled as it began to cross a squat stone bridge that straddled the Treva River. Before her lay the still waters of Lake Honrich which glimmered in the morning sun. The headway of the river was choked with orange birch leaves and silver logs, and small birds flittered to-and-fro, looking for fish to pluck from the water. In the centre of the lake sat three small islands, connected by a network of wooden bridges. On one was nothing but a wooden gate, two simple guard towers and a stone bridge that stretched from the island to the shore. The second was a wild meadow of lavender, dragon's tongue and a rainbow of flower bushes and long grasses. Dispersed throughout the meadow were apiaries that overflowed with honeybees. The third and largest island contained a square wooden keep and clusters of smaller wooden buildings. It was not like Laila to pay close attention to Goldenglow Estate, and she was usually quite content to avoid the islands and their Elven Lord, but now she couldn't tear her eyes away from the honey swamped estate. She knew that just beyond the busy bees, wildflowers and simple structures was her Riften. She strained her eyes to peak through the channels between the islands or the gaps between buildings for just a glimpse of a pier, a warehouse or a turret, but Riften remained hidden behind the estate and the haze.

They smelt it before they saw it. It smelt like the harvest bonfire or the braziers outside the Temple of Mara. It was woody and pleasant, but as the carriage left the bridge and carried on its journey through the birch forest, the haze of leaves was replaced with a cloud of black smoke. Laila sat straight up in her seat and pushed her head through the window. Jarl Ulfric did the same. She could see nothing but smoke, and it began to choke her lungs and eyes. The carriage ground to a halt. Both of them clambered out the door and stood in shock on the road. Before them lay the burning ruins of Heartwood Mill. The scattered huts were either ablaze or shattered into pieces, and the earth itself had been scorched in long, black tracks in several places. The mill itself had crumbled. A lone water wheel turned slowly in the headways of the Treva River before grinding to a halt. In slow motion it fell from its charred axel and collapsed into the river creating a wave that bobbed the strewn logs and debris. Flaming bodies were splayed across the road and throughout the mill, and the blackened and burnt survivors either picked through the scattered remains of their homes or tried to put out the fires that had spread to the forest itself. The mill town was gone in a single flaming attack.

"Laila, this is what the dragons do. This is why you must make this sacrifice."

* * *

"Jarl Thongvor, you need to stop this. Marching on Markarth will bring ruin to us all," pleaded Delphine.

"And who are you to stop me? I allow you here because of your association with the Dragonborn, but my hospitality only stretches so far. Do not presume to tell a Jarl what he may or may not do," he seethed. All around him, his men were packing away the camp. Tents lay flattened on the ground, and carts were being filled with provisions. In a few hours, they would march to battle once more.

"And it is for the Dragonborn that I ask you to reconsider. Should Whiterun catch wind that the truce has failed, then Jarl Balgruuf will refuse to allow the Dragonborn to catch a dragon in his city. Alduin will continue to raise his dragons, and there will be nothing we can do to stop him," she said. Thongvor tried to sidestep her several times, but she refused to get out of his way.

"Then why aren't you telling this to Igmund? He is the one disrupting the peace. The truce named me as Jarl. _Me_. Igmund is the usurper. Go harass him."

"If we could we would, but he is a day's ride away, and he knew what he was doing when he defied orders. He hides away in his stone city where a dragon can't touch him and thinks that makes him safe, but Alduin will not allow Markarth to defy him too."

"And that's why I must take the city before it comes to that. It'll give the Dragonborn the peace he needs to succeed, and if not then Alduin won't have to worry about me. I know better than to stand against a god."

"But there's not enough time! Just hold off until the Dragonborn captures a dragon. That's all I ask."

"You obviously don't understand what I fight for."

"Is that so? And who hates the Thalmor more than those who were slaughtered by them? Who loves Talos more than those who served and protected Tiber Septim himself? You could not have found a single temple, shrine, priory or chapel dedicated to Talos that wasn't run by retired or undercover Blades members. We are on the same side here, Jarl Thongvor, but the right path is not always the one that leads to battle."

"But this time it is. Go plead to Igmund to leave Markarth or go tell Balgruuf that the war in the Reach will not threaten Whiterun, but do not deny me my right like Igmund and the Imperials have."

"I see that this argument will not change your mind." It was Esbern who spoke. The old man had been watching the row from the side lines, and now he shifted his old body towards Jarl Thongvor. "But before you commit to this path, humour an old man by allowing me to show you something. It shan't take long. Your men will still be packing up the camp by the time we finish, and afterwards you can do as you please. We shall not stand in your way."

* * *

Nchuand-Zel was not at all how Staubin expected it to be. Instead of the crumbled ruins of a hall with a few trinkets lying around to be unearthed, he found himself in a soaring cavern with an impossibly high ceiling, a flooded base and half a dozen bridges crisscrossing between towers and doorways. The cavern was filled with a dim blue glow from thousands of mushrooms that popped out from walls and dangled from the ceiling. Their spores drifted down into the lake below, turning it milky with a dazzling sheen. All things considered, it was fairly tidy and untouched. A lovely surprise.

He forced the band to push on, those that were left anyway. At first guess they had lost half the team, but it seemed like they had disproportionately salvaged more than half of the supplies. Assuming they would not face a true battle or have to tear down an entire rock wall, it was rather fortuitous. He regretted the loss of Captain Alethius, however, as no one else really knew how to deal with the remaining Imperial soldiers, but it was a small problem all things considered.

"Now, this is where the fun really starts," he said with a ruffle of his thick black moustache. Blue eyes twinkled from behind bushy brows. They stood on the crossroads between two intersecting bridges marked by a tall hollow tower. To their left, a bridge spanned across the flooded hall to a tall door lit only by the glowing mushrooms. To their right, a ramp descended into the eerie lake. "This will be where we make camp. It has been a tremendously long day, and we all deserve a rest." He hoped the lighter tone would stop them slitting his throat in his sleep. "You two." He pointed at two guards. "Come with me. Erj and Stromm as well. We are going to explore."

"Shitting hell!" cried Stromm as the door swung open. He fell to the ground and pushed himself away from the Dwarven Centurion that raised its mighty hammer over him. A glowing red gem sat squarely in the centre of its chest, and the machine was made entirely of golden metal. Its face was shaped into the image of a great dwarven warrior, and all fifteen feet of the impenetrable mass of armour loomed over Stromm. Its left arm ended in a giant sword that was sharp enough to cut through any armour, but it was the right arm that Stromm stared at. It ended in a deadly looking hammer, easily large enough to crush the Breton in one blow. The hammer was raised above the machine's head, and Stromm thought at any moment it would come crashing down on him. The blow never came. The two guards had their swords drawn, and both the other mages had spells ready, but they all hesitantly relaxed when no sign of movement came from the colossus.

"Stromm, you can stand up now," said Staubin, but he never took his eyes away from the unyielding face of the Centurion. "Why in Oblivion has it stopped like that?"

"Maybe it's just run out of juice," said Erj.

"Did you leave your brain in Cyrodiil? I have explored a dozen ruins, many of which were far older than this one, and the animunculi have always been active. No, this is something much stranger," said Staubin. He carefully reached out a hand and placed it on the Centurion's leg. It was cold and lifeless.

"Look over here," said Stromm as he shuffled past the centurion. The others carefully followed and were met with two Dwemer Spiders, their legs splayed in defence with their squat bronze bodies pressed to the ground. It looked like they were about to pounce, but they were as motionless as the Centurion. "This is terribly odd," he said.

"It seems deliberate, but why would the Dwarves shut down their defenders?" said Erj.

"I haven't the foggiest, but we'll have plenty time to ponder that back at camp. I want to know what this place was meant to be," said Staubin.

The area did not appear to be particularly special, which rather disappointed Staubin. It was one long, thin corridor with countless doors leading to uninspiring storage rooms and office spaces filled with dust and mouldering furniture. Some of the old Dwemer gas lamps were still functional and cast a sickly green glow along the corridor. The most interesting features were the scattered animunculi frozen in positions of work or battle. Several of the metal Spiders were perpetually trapped tapping on a long-collapsed wall, and a few Dwemer Spheres guarded doors to rooms devoid of inhabitants. Their slender, metallic bodies rose from bronze spheres with a sharp sword and intricately crafted crossbow replacing their arms. Their faces almost looked human, or Dwarven, carved into menacing snarls.

"Do not forget our mission. We are here to understand why Nchuand-Zel was built and to what purpose it served. Was it a factory, a fortress, a capital to a long dead empire? These questions must be answered before we can leave. Bonus points to whoever can find evidence pointing to the relationship between Nchuand-Zel and Markarth. Are they the same city, or were they sisters? Were they rivals? Keep these questions in mind when studying this place," said Staubin as he pushed on, bored of the dull rooms that surrounded him.

"Should we not be looking into what happened to the animunculi?" asked Stromm.

Staubin halted suddenly, causing Stromm to almost collide with him. "That can wait. Look at where we are." The corridor had ended, and they now found themselves in a wide hall lit by the same green light. It was fairly bare, only stone walls with a few metal supports, but in the centre stood the most curious thing Staubin had ever seen. "Is that a damned tree?" he almost shrieked. It was not a particularly impressive or vibrant specimen, just a few gnarled and leafless branches stretching from a twisted trunk, but it was still a tree in a Dwemer ruin. Staubin wracked his brain for any mention of a living thing in any Dwemer ruin, but he came up with nought.

"This is no accident," said Erj. "It's centre place like a shrine." He was right. The tree grew from a square planter that was half as wide as the hall and filled with dry, dead soil. Around it were stone benches and golden fences, and the rest of the hall seemed to radiate from the tree

"This was some sort of communal space, a focal point for this part of the city. But why have the tree? I have never heard of the Dwemer caring for anything living," said Stromm.

"And to think you came so close to the point without realising it. If this can't have been the Dwemer, then it must have been brought here by people from the surface. This was a gift," said Satubin.

"From the Nords?" asked Erj.

"Who can be sure? But we-" There was a terrible explosion from far away. The hall and door muffled it, but the very ground vibrated with the force. "By the Eight, that came from the camp." Staubin was already running by the time the others had registered what was happening. There was no way he was going to let his supplies be destroyed.

* * *

Margret had decided to take her breakfast outside that morning, and she happily chewed on her bread and cheese while swinging her legs idly from the edge of a bridge on the highest level of the city. This was the only spot in Markarth that the morning light could penetrate, but it did little to mitigate the chill brought on by a still, frosty Reach morning. Still, the sun was nice and the silence even better. The highest level of the city was reserved for Understone Keep, the Temple of Dibella and the Guard Tower. A few of the oldest houses also occupied the cliff face on this tier, and one of these belonged to Nepos the Nose. Just as she expected, as soon as she finished her breakfast, the door to his manor creaked open, and the old man himself hobbled out onto the street. She watched patiently as a young serving girl took his arm and led him along the pristinely stoned street. His head was bald and deeply lined, and his yellow finery draped in a brown fur shawl hung loosely from his hunched back. He shuffled at an agonisingly slow pace towards a flight of stone steps that led into the depths of the city. Margret couldn't help but wonder what use such a relic was to Thonar Silver-Blood. The stairs seemed to trouble him greatly, and it was a long time before his shaking, aching steps brought him to the base. Once safely down, he was left gasping and choking. His wrinkled hand clung to a stone wall, and his entire body shook with his violent coughing fit. The sound echoed all the way up to where Margret watched from her bridge many feet above. She relaxed knowing that his neck would snap before he could strain enough to see her. His servant busied herself with handing him vials and tinctures as well handkerchiefs doused in volatile restoratives. They seemed to work, as a few minutes later he was shuffling through the door of the Treasury House.

"Good mornin'. Is Master Nepos home?" Margret asked sweetly to the bitter faced Imperial woman who answered the door. Margret's orange hair had been swapped for a dull brown, and her usual noble trims were replaced by a stained, shapeless brown dress.

"He does not take calls."

"Wasn't tryna be rude, ma'am, but it is being important like. Me 'usband's a smelter ya see, and 'e does love 'is job so, but we just 'ad ar kid ya see. Lovely little girl, just like 'er dad-"

"He does not take calls." The door began closing. Margret threw out a hand to catch it.

"Begin' ya pardon, ma'am, but I wouldna be 'ere if it weren't proper important like. We are grateful. So very grateful to the master's generosity. But as I said we 'ad ar daughter, and the money were good enough before, ma'am, and I wouldna be 'ere if she weren't sick, but we jus' need a few coins more, ma'am, please. Me 'usband is too proud to come 'ere 'imself. Says it is not Master Nepos' job to give us charity. Says 'e 'as been too good to us already, but I am jus' so worried for 'er life see. I'm only askin' for a few extra shifts for me 'usband, ma'am."

"Go to the temple. They heal the sick for free."

"We already went, ma'am, but they said they couldna 'elp 'er. It's the 'ag's cure we want, ma'am. She's got real potions 'n' lotions that do real 'ealing. I fought maybe good Master Nepos might understand, bein' of the Reach 'imself like. Please, ma'am. Ain't there nothin' you can do? I don't wanna see me daughter die."

The woman's stone face was unmoving. With a sigh, she pulled the door open. "Do not touch anything, and do not get the floor dirty. I will see if anything can be arranged."

The manor did not have the luxury of a large entrance hall, and Margret was rather surprised to find herself in a bustling living room centred around a long communal table where clerks and assistants busied themselves with stacks of papers and coins. The ceiling was low, and the room was dark. Several doors led off from the main room, but Margret knew they would be locked.

She was led to a corner of the table and was not offered a seat as the woman gently slid into a wooden chair. She heaved open a large ledger and looked up at Margret with a scowl.

"Your husband's name?"

"Omlaug, ma'am. Say, it don't look the master's home, does it?" Margret absently fiddled with the hem of her loose dress.

"Master Nepos is a very important man who meets with very important people." The scowl deepened as she leafed through yellow pages.

"Some a the washer women say 'e's gettin' sicker, ma'am, and beggin' ya pardon but can't old Bothela help him? I can speak to 'er if 'e likes."

"Master Nepos is being taken care of by the Silver-blood family. I found your husband. He's already on six shifts this week. Are you sure he can manage seven?" Margret couldn't help but be slightly surprised at what seemed like genuine concern.

"I already asked 'im that see. Said to 'im 'e'll keel over before me beloved daughter do if 'e works 'arder, but 'e insisted that given the chance 'e'd do all the work 'e can."

"There, he is in the books for another day." She looked Margret up and down. "You are awfully dark for a woman of the Reach."

Margret cackled an ugly and broken sound. "That's cause I ain't! Me pa was a Reachman through and through, but me ma was an Imperial."

The woman's eyes lit up for just a second. "That is a mix not often seen in Markarth. What was your mother's name?"

"Alessia. No last name, she weren't wealthy like. Did ya know 'er?"

"By the Eight, I think I did. She was my aunt's good friend and always made sure there were sweet treats on the table when we came to visit. What ever happened to her?"

"Well," said Margret and slid into the chair on the other side of the corner. "You are going to tell me why Nepos the Nose visits Thonar Silver-Blood so often."

"Excuse me?"

"I said, Uaile, why does Nepos visit Thonar so frequently?" With barely a hint of movement, Margret had produced a dagger from a hidden pocket and had it pressed against Uaile's stomach underneath the table. No one else in the room had noticed, and they continued on with their busy work.

"Who are you? You will not get away with this," said Uaile, but her hands began to shake.

"Answer the questions, and the blade disappears and so do I." She pressed it a little deeper.

Uaile desperately glanced at her colleagues, but most had dismissed Margret the moment she had walked into the manor.

"No, don't look at them, only me. Answer the question."

"There is trouble with the Forsworn," she said with a shaky voice.

"And why would Nepos or Thonar care?"

"You have no idea what you are getting into. Nepos is trying to quell Forsworn discontent in the city. Thonar is helping him."

Margret pierced skin. It was a tiny wound, but it made Uaile gasp in pain. "Tell me what I need to do to find out why five agents were murdered in the market square and why Thonar Silver-Blood is involved."

"Bloody hell okay. I don't know much. I just know Nepos is closely tied to the Forsworn and in debt somehow to Thonar. Maybe he's warning Thonar of where the Forsworn will attack so he can divert trade routes? I don't know, but it's also got something to do with Cidhna Mine."

"How do you know that?"

"Because everything is about the damn mine. And not just because of the silver. There's something else in there, something that worries Nepos, and I think Thonar needs him to deal with it."

"Thonar owns the mine. Why would he need Nepos to sort out whatever is in there?"

Uaile shrugged. "Please, you have to believe me when I say that is all I know. Something to do with the Forsworn. Something to do with the mine."

"Final question, and then I'm gone. How much do you want to live?"

"Very much so."

"Good. I am going to pull the knife away. Then I will say a cheery farewell, and then you will never speak of this interaction. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

Margret sighed and tucked the knife back into her dress. She stood up from the chair and beamed down at a pale Uaile. "You been so kind, ma'am, so kind. Right pleasure to meet ya. I will tell me 'usband 'ow good you've been to us." She turned and walked right out the door, not bothering to look back.

The metal door had barely swung shut when Uaile, several servants and a guard came rushing out into the streets, but the upper level was devoid of people. Orders were made to search the area, but there was no sign of Margret except a discarded raggedy brown dress and a dark wig. Despite it all, Uaile couldn't help but smile.

* * *

"Who is that?" asked Thongvor as he stood in the dimly lit hall. It was bare and grey and deep within the Karthspire. Only a few holes in the stone ceiling let in dusty pale light, but it was enough the illuminate the carved white face that was twice as tall as him.

"You have the honour of standing before Emperor Reman Cyrodiil himself. He was the one who commissioned and opened Sky Haven Temple after the Akiviri invasion," said Esbern.

"It is an honour to meet you, your majesty," said Thongvor. The statue remained silent.

The trio proceeded through a dark corridor underneath Reman Cyrodiil. Slowly, the darkness was invaded by the faint glow of sunlight, and Thongvor was surprised to emerge into a cavernous hall lit by enormous skylights in the ceiling. It was as bare as Reman's hall but many times the size and cut from the Karthspire's very centre. Stairs led up into a pillared cloister, and dark doorways led into sleeping quarters, armouries, kitchens, storerooms and a host of other functional spaces. The hall itself housed very little except a long stone table carved from the floor. A single wide beam of pale sunlight cast light on the innumerable scrolls, books, plates and mugs that took up every inch of the black stone.

"So this is where you live?" asked Thonar as his steel boots rang against the black floor.

"What better place for the last of the Blades than in the last great temple?" said Esbern.

"I have lived in the Reach my whole life, save my time in the Legion, but I never knew the Karthspire was hollow and housed Thalmor fugitives." He approached the table and began ruffling scrolls and flicking open books.

"Sky Haven Temple only began housing fugitives very recently, much to the displeasure of the Forsworn," said Delphine.

"How did you get past them?" asked Thongvor.

"We had a much easier time than you did. They were never friendly, but they tolerated us after we helped them kill a dragon," said Esbern.

"You actually killed a dragon?" he asked, turning away from the table.

"I've killed two now. One at Kynsegrove and one here. The Blades are truly back to our original calling," said Delphine. Thongvor's brows were furrowed with confusion. "You will know the Blades as the protectors of the Septim Emperors and then the primary enemy of the Thalmor. That last one certainly hasn't changed, but the Blades were first formed as a dragon hunting order, and to that mission we have returned."

"This is all fine, and I am happy to let you stay here in peace, help you even if the time ever arises. Enemy of my enemy and all that. But this hasn't changed my mind."

Esbern chuckled. "I did not bring you up here to show you my dining table. Come look at this." He led Thongvor past the head of the table to a carved wall sandwiched between two curved flights of stairs. Braziers lit it up in orange light and harsh shadows. "This is Alduin's wall, the greatest prophecy of the Blades and the purpose of this temple."

"What does it mean?" asked Thongvor. He couldn't make sense of the crowded cluster of stylised dragons and men swarmed by hundreds of symbols in a dozen languages.

"It starts here with Alduin's rise and the oppression of the people of Skyrim. The centrepiece here is his fall at the hands of ancient heroes. I think the old Blades took great pleasure in carving this part."

Thongvor was rather amused at the graceless collapse of the tattered dragon that took up the entire centre of the wall. It looked like nothing more than a fat seagull hit by a rock. One of many humiliations that men had placed upon the dragons.

"Of course, all of this had already happened by the time the wall was carved. What interests us is the last third of the wall. See here. 'When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world.' It is the crisis that hit Uriel Septim VII's reign in the Third Era which involved the staff of chaos." The wall depicted a staff shattering into pieces. "Here. 'When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped.' The Warp in the West, or the Miracle of Peace." A great brass golem leered over a crude outline of High Rock. "'When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles.' The prophecy of the Nerevarine. 'When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls.' This one is actually debated. The first part clearly refers to the Oblivion Crisis and the death of Martin Septim, the last of the Septims. Some believe the White Tower falling means the shattering of the Amulet of Kings."

"Others say it the sacking of the Imperial City by the Thalmor," interjected Thongvor. His eyes were drawn to the symbol of Oblivion carved above the White-Gold Tower.

"Precisely. You see, the events of the last few hundred years have all fulfilled the prophecy. It is inevitable. And there are just a couple of lines left. 'When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding.' What do you think that means?"

"The Snow Tower is Skyrim right? And it must be talking about the civil war."

"You're smarter than most Nord lords. Yes, Ulfric Stormcloak played right into the hands of the prophecy when he killed High King Torygg and started this war." Esbern gestured to the thin strip at the far side that showed two armies of men rushing at each other.

"And this last bit? Is that the Dragonborn?" asked Thongvor. He pointed to the final panel where a man held up a shield to protect himself from a stream of fire from the mouth of a gnarled, black dragon.

"Yes, and that is Alduin. It brings us to the conclusion of the prophecy. 'The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn.'"

"But that doesn't tell us how this ends," said Thongvor, turning towards Esbern.

"Precisely. The prophecy has led us exactly to this point. The World-Eater has awoken, and the Wheel has turned. But who wins is for us to decide," said Esbern, leading Thongvor back to the table.

"Well, what do we need to do to make sure we don't lose?"

"We have to let the Dragonborn capture a dragon," said Delphine sternly.

Thongvor opened his mouth to reply but quickly closed it. He rubbed his head and sat on a stone chair. "I see."

"It is not just Igmund's responsibility to make him succeed, and it is not Balgruuf's. It is certainly not yours alone, but it is the responsibility of every citizen of Skyrim to do everything they can to make sure we don't fall to the tyranny of Alduin the World-Eater, even if it means great sacrifice. Even if it means letting our mortal enemies win."

"I see," said Thongvor again.

"Many great people will be remembered in this tale for doing what needs to be done in the face of Skyrim's greatest calamity. Will you be one of them?"

* * *

Her beloved Riften was tarnished with filth. Its high, moss-covered stone walls which once so proudly held her banners were now adorned with the boils of the Black-Briar clan. Banners of the same colour as the birch leaves carrying a wicked ring of black thorns fluttered in the morning breeze. It was sickening enough to see them flying from the watchtowers that led to the city but seeing them on the walls pained Laila's very soul. It also rather annoyed her that the city did not share her pain nor dark mood. As the wooden gates were pulled open by orange clad guards, the sounds and smells of a city enjoying a sunny morning assaulted her. The carriage trundled across the cobbled high street past piles of birch leaves and crowds of people partaking in market day. Stalls lined the entranceways to homes and businesses, and the chorus of shouts and bargaining only got louder as the procession entered the city square. Light bridges of beech wood stretched over the stagnant canal that cut a deep chasm through the heart of Riften and formed the boundary to the square, but something as simple as a canal could not contain market day. It seemed as if every scrap of space in the city had been invaded by merchants. Laila almost chuckled to herself as she realised how apt the comparison was. With Maven Black-Briar being the richest person in the Rift, and quite possibly all of Skyrim, her takeover as Jarl was akin to a coup by an angry saleswoman.

"Do they not realise the Imperials are in control? They seem so…normal," said Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak as he watched pleasantries and business carry on without a care. His brows raised in surprise as he passed a stall selling an assortment of nick-nacks including dragon figurines and those of the Bear of Windhelm.

"Let us face facts, Ulfric. Maven Black-Briar has been running this city under my nose for years, and with her the Imperials. Half my court has been plotting against me, and it was only your rebellion that made me see the truth."

"Our rebellion, Laila. And the truth is what we fight for, however painful it may be. Now you see the poison in your city you can work to root it out."

"It doesn't exactly look poisonous though, does it? No catastrophe can dampen the joy of market day in Riften." She couldn't help but smile.

"Windhelm has market day too, but it is never quite the event it is here."

"The Rift is blessed with the finest mead, the bloodiest meat, the ripest fruits and the freshest vegetables. Not only that, but traders flock here to sell jewellery and fabrics and spices and anything you could want. It's not quite the institutes of Solitude, but every woman can find a little treat to make her feel special on market day." Laila wistfully looked across the market square to the bustling tavern and loud blacksmith. Under normal circumstances, she would be out amongst her people partaking in the joys the same as anyone else. Now, she came to her city as an outcast.

Ulfric couldn't help but smile at Laila. She was several years younger than him, and her fair skin had barely begun to wrinkle. Her brown hair was still luscious and full, and her violet eyes still gleamed with joy. Perhaps it was naivety, or perhaps she was able to see delights that he couldn't, but he found himself glad to have her as a travelling companion.

"I am terribly sorry to say, but we are approaching Mistveil Keep," he said and pointed out the window.

The keep was small and more like a fortress than a palace. It was built of thick grey stone topped by a roof of varnished beech wood. A tall but simple wall of stone and moss ringed the keep along with its guard tower and courtyard. Mistveil Keep overlooked the centre of the city like a mother over her children. Only a single flight of stone steps led through the wall and up to the wooden doors of the keep, and it was on these steps that the welcoming party stood.

Laila's face stretched open into a grin as she began to see familiar faces. She pushed her head out the window and waved franticly at the crowd on the steps. A few hesitantly waved back.

"Wylandriah, it's me!" she called over to a distant looking Wood Elf mage who was busy playing with her blue robes. The Elf's almond eyes narrowed, and her brow creased. It was a full ten seconds before she gasped and offered an excited wave back. "My court wizard," said Laila to Ulfric. "A bit dazed, but she's a good woman. It's a shame I can't take her with me. And there's Anuriel!"

"Another Elf?" asked Ulfric.

"Well, there a lot of Elves in Riften, and she is a fantastic steward," said Laila.

Ulfric leaned over slightly to get a better look at the olive-skinned Elf with wide doe eyes. She was skinny and slight, but she stood tall and refined, her hands clasped in front of her. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the man standing next to her. "Why in Oblivion is he wearing that?"

"Who? Unmid? He's my housecarl, and he needed good armour."

"But why did it have to be Elven?"

"Not all armour made from moonstone is Elven, Ulfric. It was made for him here in Riften by a Nord smith. It's as Nordic as you. Look, there are no feathers or Elven styles. It's simple plate with my crossed daggers on the chest."

"But what's wrong with good steel? The golden colour is off putting." He frowned.

"He prefers light armour, and I couldn't have my housecarl run around in leathers. Besides, the Snow-Shods had the money, so Vulwulf had it made for his son." Laila was getting rather annoyed with Ulfric.

Ulfric was tempted to carry on the argument, but he decided it wasn't worth it. He'd have no choice but to ask about Unmid's swirling blue face tattoo and burning orange mohawk. Some things were best left alone.

"And there she is, always at the centre of the web," Laila spat. She was of course referring to Maven Black-Briar who stood tall and proud amongst the court. Her skin was stretched a little too tight over her face, and no amount of rouge or lipstick could hide that she had past her prime. Her charcoal hair was pushed back behind her small ears, and thin, harsh brows arched fiercely over pale hazel eyes. She looked as if she had sucked on a sour sweet and was ready to hit somebody for it. Arms were tucked behind her back, pushing her bosom out in a puffed-up pose of power.

The carriage trundled to a stop, and a purple footman pulled open the door to allow a beaming Laila to rush out. A handsome man ran over and lifted Lila high into the air, her purple robes flowing out around her. He put her on the ground and hugged her tightly.

"Mother, I am so glad you're back. When the news came in I didn't know what to do," he said with a thick lilt.

"Hush now, Harrald, all is well. Mother is here," she cooed and brushed a lock of his golden hair that had fallen loose. Harrald was dressed in simple scaled armour, and his yellow hair was shaved at the sides and pulled into Nordic knots. A strong jaw and high cheekbones made him seem like a true warrior.

"Do we really have to leave?"

"I am afraid so, my boy, but it will all work out fine. Here, there is someone I think you'll be happy to meet." She let go of her son and smiled as Ulfric Stormcloak stepped from the carriage, his hair and dark armour catching the sun.

Harrald gasped and immediately fell on one knee. Ulfric smiled and approached the young lad. Behind him, Anuriel and Unmid bowed deeply.

"Jarl Ulfric, it is my life's joy to meet you." He hastily stumbled to pull out his simple steel sword and presented it to Ulfric with a bowed head. "And it is my honour to officially dedicate my service to you."

"Rise, Harrald. Let me look at you." Harrald dutifully rose and placed the sword tip into the ground. He rested both hands on the hilt and used it to push his body up to greater heights. He pointed his chin out and clenched his jaw. "You are a fine looking young man. Strong and loyal, too. You are Laila's eldest?"

"Yes, my lord."

"And you shall make a fine Jarl of the Rift one day." Harrald almost shed a tear.

"Saerlund, are you not going to greet your mother?" asked Laila as she turned towards a lumpy looking lad. His clothes were finer than his brothers and were a fashionable shade of midnight blue, and his face was softer and hair darker. Harrald's strong jaw put Saerlund's hint of a second chin to shame.

"Hello, mother," he said in a soft, almost sweet voice and slowly walked over to kiss Laila lightly on the cheek.

"Have you packed all your things?"

"Actually, mother, I have decided to stay here in Riften." His face began to redden, and it seemed he could not bring himself to say the words with much conviction.

"What do you mean, sweetheart? You can't stay here, and why would you want to?" Her face was twisted with confusion and sorrow.

"I don't want to go to Windhelm. I do not believe in Ulfric's cause." The boy couldn't help but cast a cautionary glance at Ulfric who only crossed his arms and puffed out his chest.

"Mother, he's been talking like this since we heard the news. He said that Windhelm is a cesspit of ignorant Nords who blindly follow an egomaniac intent on destroying Skyrim just so he can be High King," said Harrald. Ulfric raised a brow.

Saerlund remained silent.

"Sweetheart, tell me this isn't true." Laila pleaded.

"I am sorry, mother, but it is what I know in my heart. I cannot live in a city ruled over by someone like Ulfric Stormcloak. His cause is nothing but a front for his own ambition, and Skyrim can only truly be free under the Imperials."

"Well, I don't care what you believe. You are coming to Windhelm even if I have to drag you there by force. You are my son, and I will not abandon you."

Ulfric Stormcloak uncrossed his arms and took slow, deliberate steps towards Laila and Saerlund. His face was still and emotionless, but his body was tense with deliberate calm. Even Laila felt intimidated as he towered over the pair.

"Do you have any idea the sacrifice your mother is making here? She does not want to leave her home, but she is doing what her honour demands for both the cause and the safety of all citizens in Skyrim, including you." His voice was the deep growl of a bear.

"No. She is doing what you demand. She has been blinded by your lies and falsehoods and for some reason is willing to abandon her city because of a promise you made without her even in the room!"

"How dare you speak to me as if you are my equal. I could have you killed for such insubordination." The bear's growl had become a roar.

"No, you could not." The defence did not come from Laila but from Jarl Maven Black-Briar. "No blood shall be spilt in my city today," she said with a disdainful, slippery voice. She had been content to watch the show from a distance, but the situation was spiralling towards violence, and she rather liked to keep those things hidden at the bottom of the canal.

"Ah, Maven," said Laila. "I should have known you were the source of the poison that has infected my son."

"Laila, I understand this is a difficult time for you, but please refrain from such accusations. You will find that many people in this city hold the same view as Saerlund."

"Stay out of this, hag," spat a bright red Ulfric.

"My dear, you shall refer to me as _Jarl_ hag or not speak to me at all. I am afraid, however, that my interest has been piqued. It is far from me to be involved in such petty family feuds, but young Saerlund here has struck a rather interesting point." She cast a witching hazel eye briefly to the adjacent market square where a crowd had begun to gather. Perfect. "You saw fit to trade the Rift away without having its Jarl present at the table. Surely, you must have known this could happen when you agreed to go to High Hrothgar?"

"And why do you care?" said Ulfric. Maven was over a head shorter than the burly Nord, but she was wise enough to remain on the second step. One of her thin brows twitched.

"Make no mistake, I am certainly not complaining. I am entirely indebted to you, Jarl Ulfric, for without you none of this would be mine." She laughed almost lyrically at her own words. "No, that's not right." She turned to Laila. "You and I both know I have controlled this city for years, but our dear friend here has allowed me to do it publicly." The group remained silent. "I digress. Jarl Ulfric, I heard a curious little rumour that you walked into the accords and demanded the Reach before you even sat down. Now, call me naïve to the wild world of provincial politics, but you cannot have expected General Tullius to just say 'yes'."

"We need the Reach for its silver and what it would mean for the cause should I control Markarth once more," said Ulfric.

"Yes, I am sure that is all true, but what did you expect General Tullius to ask for in return? The Pale? Winterhold? Ha! Even both together wouldn't equal the value of the Rift. No, you knew what you would have to trade and never even thought to tell Laila." She turned to the shocked looking woman. "Much to think about, dear."

"See, this is the same poison you have been feeding Saerlund!" Laila was almost hysterical, and her hair flew about her face as she waved a cruel finger at Maven.

"Yes, it hardly surprises me that truth is poisonous to your rebellion."

"Come, Saerlund, this witch will not take you from me," said Laila and grabbed her son's hand.

"No," said Jarl Ulfric.

"Excuse me?" gasped Laila.

"I can just about stomach Imperial sympathies, but it would be dangerous to have Saerlund in Windhelm. Given half the opportunity he would become a spy if he hasn't already. Besides, they'd bludgeon him in the streets if they heard what he's spouting." His tone was calm and certain.

"I cannot leave my son here," begged Laila.

"He can come with us, but he will be in chains."

Laila turned to Harrald who, despite ratting out his own brother, had tears welling under his eyes. Anuriel simply shook her head and Unmid remained motionless. Wylandriah choked as she finally realised what was unfolding. It was only Jarl Maven Black-Briar who spoke. She walked the final two steps and slowly placed a hand on Saerlund's shoulder. Her fingers were long and wrinkled, and every other one held a glittering jewel in a rainbow of colours. The spider had pounced.

"I will watch over your son, Laila. He will be my guest in Mistveil Keep and is welcome to retain his chambers. Every comfort of court will be provided to him."

"He'll be your prisoner, you mean," she sobbed.

"That's hardly fair. I'm not the one threatening chains." She couldn't help but show a hint of a smile.

"Saerlund, what have you done?" asked Laila, hot tears dripping from her chin. She grasped his cheeks and searched his eyes, and though he cried his own tears, he did not move. "I love you," she whispered and held him tight.

It was a full minute before Harrald gently pulled her away. He looked his brother up and down and promptly slapped him across the cheek. Saerlund cried out, but no one came to his aid. Harrald spat at his brother's feet before climbing into the carriage without looking back. Anuriel and Unmid slid past Saerlund without a word, and Ulfric only grimaced as he disappeared.

"Wylandriah, look after him. Keep him safe. Love him."

Wylandriah shakily nodded.

"By the way, you ought to save yourself some time and not bother stopping at Fort Greenwall or Shor's Stone. I took the liberty of contacting them myself, and they seemed more than happy to pledge themselves to me," smiled Maven.

"I hope you rot in Oblivion." Laila turned to Saerlund one last time. "I love you, and I will be back for you. I promise."

The carriage pulled away, leaving the steps of Mistveil Keep looking sad and bare. Only a wistful Wylandriah, an already departing Maven and a sobbing Saerlund remained. The boy looked on the verge of collapse, but it was not for Maven to care. He was her guest, but she was not his mother.

"You still have me, child," said Wylandriah in an uncharacteristic moment of clarity. "And I still have you."

Laila watched her city drift away from view as the procession left Riften by the back gate. It was with a tight throat and a heavy heart that she realised, for the first time, some catastrophes could ruin market day.


	7. Chapter 7

Aicantar had no idea that it was possible to feel this exhausted, and he had never thought it was possible to walk for this long. His body burned, and his eyes stung with tiredness, but he could not sleep. The night had been cold and wet, and Ghorza had only allowed them a couple of hours rest just before dawn on a strategic outcrop halfway up the mountain. From there they could see across the Eastern stretch of the Reach which was dominated by the Karth Valley which had room only for the Karth River and the Silver Road.

The Reach was dark and distant, and while the others slept, Aicantar sat with his legs dangling off the edge, shivering in the wind. The path below him dissolved into blackness, and grey clouds hid the moons and stars which would otherwise have lit up the Reach in pale silver. Still, the beacons of life could be made out through the wet veil. Far below, the fires of Thongvor's war camp glimmered, an orange stain on the black night. Above it, a few lights from the strange building on the Karthspire could be spied, and behind that the many floors of the tower of Bleakwind Bluff shone like a beacon on the plateau of Sundered Hills. Further East, the twin towns of Old Hroldan and Sinkhole shone from the gentler slopes of the far hills. In the eastern stretch of the valley there was little more than the invisible road and river until his eyes rested on the great border fortress of Fort Sungard. It sat cramped on the final reach of the far cliff which stuck into Whiterun and Falkreath like a blade. The fort was a rough square with walls that rose up right from the cliff edge and had three keeps on three tiers, each with an ever-taller round tower. The very tallest rested on the last rock of the peak and marked the farthest corner of the Reach with a great beacon. Smaller blazing bonfires jutted out from the four sides of the fort, creating a protective ring of fire. Not so long ago, it was a literal beacon of hope for travellers into the Reach, as they hadn't had a safe rest since Falkreath or Whiterun. Similarly, it was the last pit stop for travellers about to brave the dense forests of the south or the exposed tundra that stretched eastward. Now, it was little more than a hive for Forsworn barbarians who proudly defiled every corner of the once great fortress with their filth.

Staring out across the lonely countryside, a fear bubbled up within him. He had never felt this exposed. He was not in his guarded tower looking over the walled city anymore. He was alone on a freezing cliff with an army hunting for him and not so much as a blanket for protection. The blackness of the Reach creeped up the mountain towards him, and it felt like a great stalking monster would snatch him off the cliff. He removed his legs from the edge. His heart began to beat faster, and his breathing became rapid. His throat swelled, and his eyes watered. The panic threatened to swallow him like the black night, and his mind raced to find something. Anything. That would distract him. It landed on the Dwemer. Aicantar was surprised that his research would bring him comfort, it never had before, but he latched onto it and began muttering about obscure histories and the hierarchy of Dwemer cutlery.

The thud of flesh on stone and the shuffling of clothes startled Aicantar out of his world, and his body lurched towards the cliff edge. He tried to call out, but his throat remained clamped shut. A hand grabbed his arm and pulled him towards solid ground.

"Hey, hey. It's okay. It's just me," whispered Tacitus. He pulled Aicantar closer and sat on the cold rock. Aicantar tumbled down in front of him, safely away from the edge.

"I'm sorry. I was somewhere else."

Tacitus smiled. "I know. Your mumblings woke me."

"I'm really sorry. I'll be quiet now I promise."

"No, it's okay. I don't mind. You were talking about the Dwemer right? Tell me about them."

"Just get back to sleep, I'm sorry for waking you."

"No." Tacitus' voice was hard and serious. "You're dealing with something here, and I want to help. So tell me about the Dwemer. I want to hear about them." He sat back with an anticipative look on his face."

Aicantar thought about arguing again, but his mindless mutterings did help him, and having someone else on this cliff was comforting. He sighed and turned to face the countryside again. Tacitus shuffled up beside him.

"They loved it here, you know? The Dwemer. No one really knows why, but the popular theory is the same as why the Nords love it here – for the riches in the ground. The Reach is one of the finest mining regions in Tamriel, and the Dwemer definitely loved mining."

"Were they from here?"

"Not even nearly. They came from Morrowind, and before that who knows. Some say Alinor, some say Aldmeris, some say they appeared from nowhere."

"Ghorza told me that Dwarven metal couldn't be mined or made. Is that true?"

"Today it is. You can only melt down scraps and reforge things, but it must have come from somewhere. No one has ever found pure metal in the ground, so it's probably an alloy like steel, but the composition has never been confirmed." He took a deep breath. "They found something far more valuable than metal in Skyrim, however. In their very deepest mines they found Aetherium. I have never seen it myself, but it was precious beyond imagination. It held the power of the gods, like the name suggests, and the tales of its uses fill the old legends. The Kragen clan once used it to pull down the stars themselves and grab their power. It's not likely that there's any left, not after they destroyed themselves fighting over it."

"The Dwemer went to war with each other?"

"Oh yes. Generally, the different cities got along, but Aetherium has the power to destroy any peace. Four cities allied themselves to mine, study and smelt Aetherium, and it only took a few years before they turned on one another to hoard it all for themselves. In The Pale, the city of Raldbthar first discovered and first mined it. The city of Mzulft in Eastmarch was used to store it. Here in the Reach, Arkngthamz was the research centre dedicated to its study. I don't think it's far from here. Somewhere in these mountains."

"And the fourth city?"

"The most mysterious of all. Bthar-zel. Now known as Deep Folk Crossing. The underground city has never been found, and all that remains is the great bridge that Jarl Igmund calls home. It is named as an ally, but its role in Aetherium study and subsequent war is a mystery. I am surprised that Jarl Igmund hasn't let my uncle dig below Deep Folk Crossing."

Tacitus remained quiet for a moment and stared with Aicantar into the night.

"So they destroyed each other?" he whispered.

"Nearly. The Nords finished them off, but the real damage was done to each other by each other."

"The Reach hasn't changed," said Tacitus.

Aicantar opened his mouth to reply, but he quickly closed it and frowned quizzically at Tacitus. "I suppose you're right. Replace 'Dwemer' with 'Reachmen,' 'Nords' or 'Imperials' and you have a very similar story. What is it about this Hold that makes everyone so angry and full of hate and greed?"

Tacitus shrugged. "Silver is the obvious answer, but there's more to it I'm sure. Perhaps it's cursed. Perhaps the Forsworn are right and the Nords and Imperials truly don't belong here." Tacitus became more animated and shuffled round to sit cross legged facing Aicantar, ignoring everything else but him. "Imagine if the Nords, way back when, said 'nah, those hills already have a people, we should let those strange tribes keep their land.' And never conquered the Reach. All of this trouble with the Forsworn wouldn't exist. They'd be their own peaceful kingdom, probably, and maybe over time would have willingly joined the Empire. All the other races of men did." He stared at Aicantar eagerly.

"You might well be right, but men are short-sighted and greedy. One generation may have left the Reachmen in peace, but the next would lust over their silver mines and try to take them for their own. In that way, this land truly is cursed. There can be no solution so long as all parties think the Reach as theirs and theirs alone."

"But it must belong to someone. Surely the Reachmen have the best claim?"

Aicantar shook his head. "History has much to teach us, and on this matter it teaches us that all lands either belong to no one or everyone. There were Elves here before the Nords, and Cyrodiil was once an Empire of the Ayleids. Dwemer before the Dunmer in Morrowind. Dunmer before the Argonians. It doesn't matter who is there first, just who wins the inevitable war. Your reasoning tells us that Whiterun and Windhelm should be abandoned to the blind Falmer, but no one is going to do that. Perhaps a day exists when Nords, Imperials and Reachmen can agree to share the Reach, but that won't happen today."

"If you two don't shut the fuck up, I'll through you both off this cliff," growled Ghorza hoarsely without moving or opening her eyes.

Tacitus and Aicantar bit their lips and silently crawled to their sleeping spots. Aicantar lay with head on his hands, looking into the darkness once more, but it didn't frighten him as much now. Instead, he drifted off to thoughts of Dwemer wars and Nordic conquest. And Tacitus.

Dawn breached the horizon, and the march continued up the mountain. It was painful to walk, and the ground was thick with mud. Their legs were caked with it, and every step was an agonising struggle, but fear drove them onward. If Thongvor's men had found the path, then their lives were still in grave danger. Some of Aicantar's and Ondolemar's magic had returned, but it would not be enough to fight off an army, and Ondolemar's wounds were giving him much trouble. Despite the healing he had received, the strain of running and climbing had reopened them, and his robes were soaked with blood. His face was pale and his eyes grey, but he gritted his teeth and put one step in front of another. When it became too much, he would cast a quick healing spell, but it was only enough to dull the pain for an hour or so. He dared not use any more magic than was strictly necessary as he did not know when he would need it, and they couldn't afford to stop for long. Besides, the warm light of healing magic may as well be an arrow to their position, and on the path flanked by boulders and walls of rock there was nowhere to run.

"Why didn't you tell me?" asked Ondolemar as a searing bout of pain faded.

"Are you talking to me?" asked Aicantar.

"No one else here kept secrets from me."

"No one here is obliged to tell you secrets," Aicantar said through gritted teeth.

"If you had only told me that Calcelmo had warned you of a plot in Markarth then we wouldn't be in so much danger now."

"You only would've found a way to benefit from this. You're Thalmor. It's what you do."

"You may have killed that Hagraven, but you have not earnt the right to be a bitch to me. You have endangered every single one of us because you kept pertinent information to yourself. That means I get to be a bitch to you." Ondolemar couldn't help but enjoy his joke.

"You're like that to everybody. It's your job."

"I'm gonna hit one of you if you don't stop bickering," growled Ghorza. "You're wrong though, Ondolemar. If Aicantar had told you something was going on in Markarth you never would've left, and Aicantar wouldn't have escaped."

"Do you really think I have to get involved in every court squabble?" Ondolemar frowned.

"Is that not why you were sent to Markarth?" asked Aicantar.

Ondolemar paused as everyone looked at him. "I suppose you have a point, but let it be known that there is no chance in Oblivion I would have stayed in Markarth had I known the Stormcloaks were about to gain control. Did it not occur to any of you that Thongvor or Ulfric would have me executed the moment they stepped into the city?"

The group was silent once more.

"I thought not. I just don't understand why no one warned me."

"I was scared, Ondolemar. I was scared that my uncle was in danger. I was scared of Thongvor, and I was scared of you, all right? I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know where I am. I don't know where to go. I can't stop thinking that if this mountain doesn't kill me then Thongvor will," said Aicantar, his voice getting increasingly agitated. "I'm sorry that I didn't tell you there was something going on in Markarth, but I didn't know what it was, and I didn't know that I could trust you."

Ondolemar cast a pitiful look at Aicantar. "But you can trust me. You know that now."

"Can I? When we were in Understone Keep you promised that I would be at the back of the army, that I would be little more than a healer. I ended up alone on top of that mountain with a Hagraven trying to kill me. In the end your word meant nothing."

"You aren't gonna die on this mountain," said Ghorza quietly. "We're here."

The steep cliffs of the mountain path trapped them on either side, and now a wall of the same dark rock rose before them. The ground itself was now flatter and well-trod. If it weren't for the metal portcullis, it would have looked like they'd reached a dead end.

"Whose land is this?" asked Tacitus.

A slab of stone near the top of the wall was rolled aside to reveal an arrow slit. "Who approaches?" called a gruff voice. It was distinctly Nordic.

"Ghorza gra-Bagol. Tacitus of Cyrodiil. Aicantar of Markarth and Ondolemar of Alinor," called out Ghorza, unphased.

"That… is a strange group," said the voice again, and a pale, bearded man poked his head through the hole. "What business does an Orc, and Imperial and two Elves have in Reachwind Eyrie?"

"We seek sanctuary."

"From who?"

"The Forsworn and the Silver-Blood family. We haven't slept nor ate in a day, and we have spent the night hiking up your mountain. If you do not less through, we will die at these gates."

"You made us walk up this cursed mountain not knowing if they would let us through at the end?" asked Ondolemar, appalled.

"They'll let us in."

"I'll make sure of that." Ondolemar stepped to the front of the group. "Sir, I assure you that we are who we say we are. I am Ondolemar, Second Emissary of the Aldmeri Dominion to Skyrim, and I demand to see…" he stepped back slowly and leaned over to Ghorza. "Who are we seeing?"

"You could just be any Elf. You aren't even wearing Dominion robes," called down the guard. He had the slightest smile on his face, and his chin now rested in his hand with his elbow pressed to the window ledge.

"Yes I am! Look." Ondolemar gestured down to his soiled robes and sighed disappointedly as he saw what the guard did. His once blue robes were now brown with blood and mud, and not even a shred of gold could be seen. "I assure you, sir, that underneath this filth is a well-fitted, well-tailored set of Justiciar robes complete with the collar trims that befit my status. Now, are you seriously going to deny an Emissary of the Aldmeri Dominion safe passage?"

"Yes. Lord Kolskeggr made it very clear that we are not to permit outside trouble into the plateau."

"This is Lord Kolskeggr's land?" called Aicantar, pushing his way past Ondolemar. "As my friend said, I am Aicantar of Markarth. I am the nephew of Court Wizard Calcelmo. We have had the honour of hosting Lord Kolskeggr several times in our tower." Aicantar stood tall and stared at the guard.

The guard stood up straight and leaned out the window. "Oh, and you had to go and spoil it. We know who you are. We've been tracking you since you first came off the road. Mighty near miss with those Silver-Blood men, we were impressed. Come on in, Lord Kolskeggr is waiting."

Beyond the gate, the ground began to flatten, and the sharp cliffs began to crumble away to meet the plain. A great plateau spanned before them, warmed in the midday sun. On all sides rose the shear Druadach Mountains, hugging the sun kissed fields like a protective mother. In the distance, pressed against the far mountains, was a wooden palisade behind which smoke wafted lazily into the sky. A well-trod dirt road cut through grain fields, orchards and cattle pens before ending at the compound.

"I didn't know Lord Kolskeggr owned such fertile land," said Aicantar.

"He doesn't," said the guard. "This way." He led them to where the road forked, with the right-hand curving round to reclimb the cliff face. They rounded the U-turn and were faced with a charming village of thatched cottages and grass-covered sod houses on which daisies and dandelions bathed in the sun. The houses were sunken into the ground, with only their grassy triangle rooves poking out and the hint of a stone wall lurking at the edge of doorways before being swallowed by the hillock. Horned goats climbed on the low rooves and munched away at the thicker tufts of grass. The village followed the winding road upward, matching its sways and curves. Guards were posted at intervals throughout the village as it rose into the sun, and drably dressed commoners gossiped and worked on every corner, and chickens skittered around children and carts. Each little house came with a little garden lovingly tended do by its owner who grew wheat, leeks, potatoes, gourds, anything that could grow this high up and would see them through the winter.

The road ended at another small complex. This one housed a long timber granary, a squat brick barracks and a skinny stone tower that rose a hundred feet above the town. Its walls were grey and carved in the Dwemer style of austere faces in a sea of repeating geometric patterns. Windows and balconies stuck out like stubby hedgehog quills, each decorated with a glimmering golden frame or railing. The very top was a metal dome, much like Aicantar's own tower, but from this one a strange brass tube protruded from a hole on its side. At the base of the tower, three buildings poked out like spokes; one of lazily stacked stone, one of dark timber and one entirely of glass.

The villagers ignored the progression of the group, content to carry on with their daily bustle. The guards only nodded to their captain. It was only as they approached the tower were they acknowledged. The metal door swung open, and Lord Kolskeggr stepped from the smoky gloom into the sun. Shaggy grey hair hung from his pale head, and a matching beard swung from his chin. Green eyes squinted beneath a heavy and wrinkled brow, and his short form was draped in a thick purple robe of wool, trimmed with white fur and patterned with gold thread. It depicted dazzling scenes of battles and hunts. Each tree, animal, face and weapon was lovingly sewn into the fabric with precious gold.

Aicantar smiled at seeing the old man. He had fond memories of his visits to Understone Keep, and he felt better for seeing a friendly face. Lord Kolskeggr did not look at him. Aicantar's smile faded. Perhaps he knew Ondolemar too?

"Ghorza, you should not have come here," he said in a wise growl.

"I had no choice."

"I cannot protect you."

"I know."

"The price you will have to pay-"

"I know."

He was quiet for a moment. "Very well. You may stay here for the night, and we can face our problems in the morning." He smiled widely and spread his arms. "Come, all. Today, Reachwind Eyrie is your home. Eat, drink, bath. Relax and recover. Enjoy all the pleasures this little tower on the hill can provide." He was about to turn but stopped himself. "Aicantar, it is good to see you. You must tell the story of how you came to be here. After a good wash."

* * *

Jarl Balgruuf the Greater stood on the steps of Dragonsreach overlooking the unnervingly silent city of Whiterun. Upon his place at the top of the city, he could see every street and square stretch before him, ringed by houses that grew in size the closer they got to him. Most were simple wooden huts with long, slanting rooves of yellow tiles that almost touched the ground. Simple timbers of light pinewood supported the rooves, and the gaps between timber were filled with cob and a layer of flaky white plaster. They were humble, but they were strong enough to weather the elements and warm enough to keep out the winter frosts. As the city rose to meet him, huts were replaced with timber manors that spired into the sky, almost touching the base of Dragonsreach itself. Many nobles and wealthy merchants called his city home, and it was these manors nestled in the walled Wind District that they called home.

Usually, the streets of Whiterun would be crowded with people looking to shop or work or visit the temples, but today they were empty save for those he permitted. Clusters of guards in yellow jerkins emblazoned with the Horse of Whiterun stood with weapons drawn in every square and open space. Where the steps of Dragonsreach met the city, a wide circle centred around the once glorious Gildergleam tree housed a century of Legion soldiers. They took up defensive positions around benches and short walls, bows and swords at the ready. Special care was given to protect the Temple of Kynareth, who's stained windows reflected diamonds of blue light across the circle. Opposite the temple rested the jewel of Whiterun. An upturned longship decorated in rows of shields from long dead clans created the great hall of Jorrvaskr. Next to Jorrvaskr, on a ragged peak of the hill that Whiterun sat upon, was the legendary Skyforge, a pit of roiling lava that bubbled up from the heart of Skyrim. It was guarded by an enormous eagle that was carved from the hill itself. This place was the home of the Companions, Skyrim's greatest league of warriors. Right now, they were armed to the teeth and stood in a protective ring around their hall. Even if the rest of Whiterun burned to the ground, the Companions would never abandon Jorrvaskr. Jarl Balgruuf knew he would need them in the fight to come.

A lone figure walked the streets of Whiterun to a constant assault of greetings and salutes. Jarl Balgruuf smiled as the man hurried to avoid the crowds, and he opened his arms wide as the man reached him.

"Dragonborn! Come here," he said and wrapped beefy, steeled arms around the smaller Nord. The Dragonborn grasped him and slapped his back. Jarl Balgruuf pulled away and stared into the man's deep brown eyes. "How is it?"

"The city?" Asked the Dragonborn as he disentangled Jarl Balgruuf's flowing golden hair from a horn in his helmet. Jarl Balgruuf only laughed and yanked on his yellow braids. "The walls are crumbling worse than ever, the houses are dry as kindling, and the people are scared shitless. We're pretty much ready."

Jarl Balgruuf laughed and slapped his plated stomach with a clang. "Well, thank the Eight that their Thane is here to make sure nothing bad happens."

"It is their Thane who might be the death of them. What of the soldiers?"

"Any open space is guarded as best we're able. Every rooftop and watchtower is manned with archers, and the militia has set up bucket brigades in the most vulnerable parts of the city."

The Dragonborn cast an eye beyond Jarl Balgruuf to the towering palace of Dragonsreach. It soared upwards from the crest of the hill, its wooden and stone towers piercing the sky. Parts were made of the same cob, timber and tiles as the rest of the city, while great stone towers rose over the rest to form the bulk of the fortress. The tallest being a great bell tower complete with four carved dragon heads. The main hall was made of the finest timber in the hold and dominated the palace and the city. It was built like a cathedral with lofty buttresses and towering, arching windows. "There is a good chance you will lose your palace, friend."

"It is a risk I must take." Jarl Balgruuf cast his blue eyes across the plains of Whiterun. "No movement, no fire, no drums, no army. We are ready. It is time." His voice was strong and certain.

The Dragonborn slapped his helmet and drew his sword. "Let's go catch a dragon."

* * *

Kerah was rather content to wave away her afternoon filling in ledgers and working out the family finances. The stall had not received a single customer that morning, and instead of wasting her time standing around in the market, she thought it best to busy herself at home. Besides, it meant she could spend some time with Adara. Right now, her little girl was sat on the opposite sit of the square stone table with her eye pressed to a magnifying glass that leered over her newest creation.

"How is it going, dear?" she asked while dipping her quill.

"Its eye is funny. I don't think daddy got the right topaz," she said with a huff.

"Daddy has every stone imaginable. Why don't you go show him and see if he can find something else," Kerah said with a smile. She lay down her quill and watched as her daughter carried her precious little silver something into the back room.

A moment of silence. It was bliss. Her piles of papers and books could be ignored for a moment, and her quill could rest like her. So far it seemed like their situation had improved slightly, and the thought was ever so comforting. Despite their manor and precious metals and stones that flowed in and out of the house, not as much money stayed as she would like. Certainly, they were comfortable, but it meant stew for supper instead of steak and woollen coats instead of fur. Good wool, mind you, from the Cyrodiilic Jerralls, but wool, nonetheless.

Kerah knew exactly what this moment called for. She gracefully rose from her padded wooden chair and placed the already filled kettle on the stove. She opened the cupboard and carefully pulled out a small canvas bag which she opened and took a long sniff. Her body relaxed as she closed her eyes and let the heady rich smell of coffee fill her mind. She took a handful of the dark, dry beans, crushed them in a pestle and mortar and placed them in the centre of a small square of cloth which she folded into the bottom of a stone mug. The kettle began whistling, and she filled the cup with water as her mind drifted to her sand-filled childhood. She pressed the cloth firmly with a spoon, removed it and placed it into the white basin. She was left with a perfectly brewed cup of coffee.

Of course, there would be a knock at the door as soon as she sat down. The sharp notes of rings on metal sang through the room, and Kerah reluctantly pushed herself to the door.

"Lady Silver-Blood, to what do I owe the pleasure?" she asked with surprise.

Betrid smiled brilliantly. "Today has been rather slow, has it not? Well, it has been for me, so for the first time in forever I took myself to the kitchens and whipped up a small treat." She pushed her way passed Kerah, a copper tray grasped between gloved hands. She slid it onto the kitchen table and dramatically whipped off the delicately embroidered cloth. "As it happens, I'm horrible at guessing what 'small' really means and I ended up making two dozen sweetrolls." A mound of mishappen bread that was somehow burnt and underdone steamed on the kitchen table. Betrid had tried to hide her sins with a generous drizzle of gloopy white icing but it only made the mess less appealing. "No, dear, I know exactly how they look, but I am hoping they're at least edible." She paused and sniffed the air. She wafted the cloth across her face and sniffed again. "Is that _coffee?_ "

"Um, yes, my lady. It is," said Kerah hesitantly and slowly closed the door.

Betrid placed the hand holding the cloth against her hip and raised her brows at Kerah. "Dare I ask how you managed to get hold of such a luxury?"

"Well, family visit occasionally from Hammerfell, and before the war a few of the Khajiit traders carried some. With some strict rationing I've managed to make it last quite some time."

"Good for you! Perhaps next time I pop round we could enjoy some together, but sadly I shan't be able to stay long today."

"Was there something you wanted, Lady Silver-Blood?" asked Kerah, awkwardly hovering near the door.

"Oh, yes! I just wanted to ask why you're helping the Imperial spy, Margret?" Her smiled vanished into a straight lipped stare with loveless eyes and an unmoving body. Kerah's heart exploded.

"I don't understand what you mean. I… I don't think I know a Margret."

"You try lying to me again and your husband will find your body slumped over this tray of sweetrolls." She slowly placed her jewelled hand on the back of a chair.

"Well, of course there is Margret who visited my stall not too long ago. You say she's a spy? She seemed normal enough to me." Kerah's hands began to quiver. She hurriedly tucked them behind her back.

"You were there during the attack in the market. You saved her life. You and that Elf."

"My lady, the jarl said not to talk-"

"I know what the jarl said. You were seen with her outside of the inn, and you were seen entering her rented rooms. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"She wanted to talk about a few pieces I had on offer."

Betrid shook her head. "I am so very disappointed. Margret wants to destroy my family and take everything from us. She has threatened Lord Nepos and assaulted a member of his household. Imagine how betrayed I felt when I found out you have been colluding with her. What's your role in this? To get close to me and feed information about my habits, my life? To find weaknesses in the defences of The Treasury House?"

"No, Lady Silver-Blood, please! I have done nothing to hurt you." Kerah was rooted in place. She was certain there was a guard waiting for her to run, and what if she did? Her husband and daughter were trapped in there with Betrid. All she had was her words. Her leg rocked. Her palms were damp, and her heart wouldn't stop slamming against her ribs.

"Sweetness, I know that. If I thought your betrayal had led to any real harm you would be dead already. I battled with what to do with you for quite some time. The baking made things a little clearer. And let me make things clear to you. If Margret makes any move against us. If we so much as see her on this street, then you will be dragged to Cidhna Mine, and you will die in there. Your husband will be executed." She didn't give Kerah a chance to respond. "What I don't understand is why you've gotten yourself mixed up in this unpleasantness. Why would you want to hurt me? Why try and bring such needless chaos to Markarth?"

Kerah opened her mouth hesitantly, but before any sound came out the door behind Betrid creaked open. Betrid's brilliant smile returned, her plump rouged cheeks creasing her undereyes. Her blue eyes sparkled, and all the tenseness in her body melted away. She swivelled around to face the backdoor. Adara poked her head out, her sad brown eyes wide with curiosity.

"Hello, what's your name?" said Betrid, crouching slightly towards Adara.

Kerah's voice cracked. "Adara, sweety, please go back to the workshop.

Betrid frowned and turned her head towards Kerah. "Honestly, dear, I'm not some sort of monster." Her smile softened into something gentle and friendly, her alert eyes dropping slightly. "My name is Betrid." She wiped her hand on her mustard velvet dress and presented it to Adara. Adara slowly crept into the room and took Betrid's hand and gave it one good shake. Betrid spotted something shiny in Adara's left hand. "What do you have there?"

Adara held out her work in both hands. "I finished it just now."

"May I?" asked Betrid. Adara nodded gleefully.

Betrid reverently plucked the delicate silver horse from Adara's tiny hands, making sure to hold it by the thickest part of its body. The silver was smooth and expertly polished, and the grooves of its muscles were pristine and perfect. It felt as if the horse would gallop out of her hands. Betrid's eyes were wide as she studied the detailed braid of silver strands that made up its mane and tail. Every tooth and fold of the nostrils were immaculate and cleanly cut. Truly it was as if Adara had dipped a miniscule foal into molten silver and had its eyes replaced with two tiny golden topazes.

"You truly made this?"

"Yes, ma'am. Daddy lets me use some of the silver scraps for practising."

"You have a gift, dear girl. I have met seasoned craftsmen that would not be able to make something half as fine." She carefully returned the horse to its owner. "So you like horses?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Have you ever ridden one?"

"No, ma'am."

Betrid stood up tall and placed a gentle hand on Adara's small shoulder. She wheeled them both around to face Kerah. "Well, _I_ happen to have several horses of my own. If your mummy carries on being such a good friend to me then I promise to take you out riding. Just you and me into the countryside. Would you like that?"

Adara's face split open into a beaming smile and she nodded her head vigorously. Kerah's eyes began to water and her quivering reached its peak.

"Wonderful. I am terribly sorry but I must dash – plenty to do today. I truly hope you both enjoy the sweetrolls, and you _must_ tell me what you think when I next see you." With a wave of the cloth, which Adara returned with her small hand, she was out the door.

"Mummy, your friend is very nice."

* * *

Hamal's boot crunched a glass into dust and diamonds as she ran through the Temple of Dibella. She did not stop. The floor was littered with crockery, pots, plants, food, makeup, clothes. Anything that was on shelves or in wardrobes or chests was now soaking up blood on the floor. She did not stop to help the dying. Most of them did not deserve her help. She hobbled as the glass poked through her sole into her foot, and the wound screamed with protest, but the Inner Sanctum called. Two bodies floated in the fountain. Pink water frothed from the top and collected in the desecrated basin.

The usually locked metal doors were gaping, and scuffled steps and clanging weapons echoed throughout the stone hall. A scream. Hamal hurried on.

"Let her go!" Shrieked a white knight, her enamelled armour splashed with blood.

"You cannot stop me. I do this for my God," a deep male voice responded.

"To attack Dibella's temple is to damn yourself, but you might be saved if you stop this bloodshed now." Hamal slowly took the triple stairs down into the sanctum, here hands clutched together in front of her. Before her was the Sybil's throne, vacant in its alcove, and at its feet was the Sybil herself, strewn across the stairs, held in the tight grip of her captor. He was sat on the stairs, eyes wide and wild darting between the two knights. His head was shaved and his face printed with black runes. A knife was pressed to the Sybil's throat. Hamal stepped over a bloodied priestess.

"I am not damned. My God loves me for what I have done." Blood trickled from the Sybils neck. Her old eyes pleaded with Hamal, her grey hair wet and crimson.

"Your God loves nought but destruction. When he looks upon this hall he will smile, and he will smile again when your bones are dust. It is meaningless. There is no reward for you. But my God loves. She can forgive. If you let the Sybil go."

"Her death is what He demands."

"Then why is she alive? I see a hostage not a sacrifice. Hand her over, and Dibella's light can cleanse this temple and it can cleanse you." Hamal stood a foot behind the knights. They leered over the man and the Sybil.

"The world is cleansed in nought but ash. Light does not live long in Coldharbour. Dark Master, take this soul and consume those who do not love you!" The knife disappeared into flesh. The Sybil's eyes went cold.

Hamal did not flinch. "Do not kill him. Take him alive and bring him outside."

Jarl Igmund raced into the blinding light outside Understone Keep. Wind rushed over his cropped head, and his ocean eyes squinted at the day. Nothing could be heard over the roar of rushing water. His fur-hemmed green cloak flapped in the wind, and his circlet sat cold on his brow. He was dragged forward into the city by his wolf-like mutt who was held on a short leather leash. Behind him scurried guards and aids, as well as Faleen, all of whom struggled to keep up.

Across the stone yard a flight of wide steps led into the decorated cloisters of the Temple, and up they ran. Petals flew into the wind as they ducked under lower arches and circled round carved pillars of metal and gold. The waterfalls faded away, and a different roar invaded the Temple. That of a crowd.

They passed the golden doors to the Temple, wide open and unguarded. They reached the balcony. The great stone outcrop that jutted into the city from which the Temple gave sermons and announced Dibella's will.

"Your city is under attack! These heathens invade your homes, kill your families and steal your food. And now, as if their cruel campaign against the people of Markarth wasn't enough, they attack Dibella's Holy Temple itself!"

The crowd exploded. They packed the market square, the bridges and any corner of the terraces that had a view of the Temple. The whole of Markarth came to hear Hamal the Mother preach Dibella's holy doctrine. And they were furious. Cries for blood choked the air like poison. Unintelligible screams, roars and cries of carnal fury shook the City of Stone. Its people a great beast, pulling at its leash to decimate its enemies.

"Too many of Dibella's own priestesses were slaughtered today. Too many knights of the Order of the Lily cut down trying to defend the beating heart of Markarth. And too few of the attackers died in their attempt. We few that are left shall not rest until every heathen is sent to their death. And we start now with the one who killed your Sybil." Two knights dragged the beaten and bloody figure to the edge of the balcony. The cries reached a fever pitch.

Jarl Igmund felt the noise of the crowd in his bones.

"Mother, you must stop this. Justice is not served like this in Markarth," he shouted over the din.

"Justice? What justice is there except death? And we shall be the ones to strike the blow."

"The Temple does not have jurisdiction here."

"Jarl Igmund, you do not have jurisdiction over the Temple. Step away and watch as Dibella's will is done." Hamal graceful moved her body towards the man, who's neck now bridged the gap between the rocky outcrop and nothing.

"Mother, there will be consequences." He took a step towards her, but two white knights stepped in the way, crossing their halberds so as to block his path.

Hamal smiled. "I'm counting on it."

"Mother, the axe," said a young, pretty priestess, handing over a silver bejewelled axe to Hamal who took it in one pristinely manicured hand.

Faleen drew her sword. "Step away from the prisoner."

"Another one to threaten the Temple? I don't think that's wise, dear housecarl," said Hamal.

Jarl Igmund put a hand on Faleen's arm. "She's right. Look at the people down there. We can't stop this."

"My people, I offer to you and Dibella this traitor's blood." She took a step so as to leer over the man who turned his head to cast his wide fearful eyes up at her. "Any last words?"

"Molag Bal take you," he spat.

The next moment his body lay twitching on the balcony. His head now greeted the braying crowd in the market square.

* * *

The sun had set, and Ghorza couldn't possibly fit another morsel in her mouth. Golden light shone through diamond windows as she lay on the beige linen-covered bed. They promised the scratchy coverings would be removed if she bathed. She had promised to wash after a meal. Raisins, nuts, cold and cured meats, small egg-stuffed pastries, cheeses of all textures and odours, winter fruits, patês of boar and duck, all served on hard-baked crackers or soft breads wrapped in a crumbling crust. They called it a lunch, but Ghorza considered it a fine feast. What was finer still was the carafe of Colovian wine that she washed it down with. Now, while she could barely move, she thought it a good time to finally soak the muck off her skin and the cold from her bones.

The baths lay beneath the tower in a labyrinth of natural caverns with only carved stairs and segmented torches hinting at habitation. Tunnels wound away from the wide one Ghorza found herself in. Most were dead ends and thus were relegated to simple storerooms. The tunnel led on, and her bare feet slapped against the cold stone as the stairs led her ever downwards.

The bathroom was wide and long, with a square of dark pillars ringing the sunken bath. It was another square but sunken in the ground, 10 feet on each side. Light only came in a directionless orange glow from the torches that circled the room and were bolted to every other pillar.

She grabbed a soft white towel from a shelf and pulled off her soiled tunic, trousers and undergarments until her naked body waddled to the bath's edge. She was about to swing her towel on the rack and jump into the warm water, but she realised she wasn't alone.

"Ah," said Ondolemar, slapping his belly under the water. "You had your lunch too."

Ghorza looked down at her swollen stomach and hastily shifted the towel to cover herself. "Didn't mean to disturb." She turned to leave.

"No, stay!" Called Ondolemar. "I didn't mean to offend. Under the water here is a belly twice the size of yours I assure you."

"I'll bathe later."

"Please join me. There's still some clean water in here somewhere," he pleaded.

Ghorza stared down at him. "Please," he said again.

She huffed and threw the towel onto the rack and stepped down the stairs into the warm, dark water until only that above her collarbone was visible. She began scraping muck from her braids.

"I've never bathed in a volcanic pool before," said Ondolemar. "I've heard it has fabulous restorative properties, and I very much intend to stay here until I am restored. Would you like some wine?"

Ghorza stopped her fidgeting and frowned slightly. "Sure, why not."

He smiled and turned his yellow back to her. Muscles swam under skin and over bone as he fumbled with a carafe and a glass. He sloshed back around and swam over to Ghorza, spilling a drop of ruby red here or there. She took the glass, and Ondolemar did not hesitate in swimming back to his side of the pool. "You'll find some soap on the ledge there," he said, beckoning his head.

Ghorza silently scrubbed her hair, repeatedly dunking her head under to get as much grime out as possible, and then she took the soft bar of beeswax soap and started scrubbing her body. Ondolemar did not speak, only watched and sipped his wine. Eventually she was satisfied with her work and leaned back with a sigh. She threw back her wine in one gulp. Ondolemar was out the pool, rummaging naked through a small wooden wine rack for another good bottle. Ghorza caught a glimpse of shining skin here and there in the torchlight. His stomach was indeed swollen, what wasn't hidden behind bandages, but he was lean and muscled and smooth. Flawless skin covered every inch of him, with not so much as a pore to be seen on his face. He returned with two bottles. He walked around to Ghorza's side of the pool to give her one and returned to his to open the other.

"Madame Orc, are you in trouble?" he asked.

"What happened to 'dumb Orc'?"

"I have eaten an ungodly amount and have spent an afternoon soaking. I am in the best mood you will ever find me. So, are you?"

"Maybe. We'll see."

"With Lord Kolskeggr?"

"No."

"Then with whom?"

She was silent. They stared at each other, Ondolemar softly and Ghorza harshly.

"I am not attempting some Thalmor intelligence collection here. I am trying to understand the situation and work out if I should be worried."

"You should not be worried. It only affects me." She sunk deeper into the pool and closed her eyes.

"Really? Don't forget we've got kids to think about now." He curled his lips.

She huffed and opened her eyes again. "Oh, we have kids together? And a charming cottage on the outskirts of town?"

Ondolemar laughed. "There we go. A little bit of joy from you! But yes, we've got to look after those two boys."

"You don't have to do shit. Tacitus is my apprentice, and Aicantar is my friend. You can walk away without consequence."

"No, I can't. I owe Aicantar too much, and I truly care for the both of them. And I'm starting to get used to you, so please tell me what's going on so I can help you or at least keep Tacitus and Aicantar as far away from it as possible."

Ghorza drained another glass of wine. She cast her eyes into the murky water. Orange light bounced off her glistening skin and drenched dark hair. "Well, since we have the littluns to think about, and you'll probably find out everything tomorrow anyway, I'll tell you."

Ondolemar waited patiently for her to be ready. He was surprised to see tears well in her eyes, and he sat up straighter and leaned forward slightly. His brows showed the smallest lines of concern.

"You know me as Ghorza gra-Bagol."

"I barely know you as Ghorza." He offered her a weak smile and ran a bashful hand through his hair as he winced at his joke. It only went a couple of inches before getting caught in matts.

Ghorza laughed and shook her head. "My name is Ghorza gra-Dushnik."

"I'm sorry, but should that mean something to me?"

"Sorry, wine makes me forget that people aren't Orcs. What comes after 'gra' is where I'm from. It means I'm from Dushnik Yal. You saw the farmland and the complex on the far side of the crater?"

"That's Dushnik Yal?"

"Right. Orcs aren't meant to leave their stronghold. Me and Moth left some ten years ago."

"What's the punishment for leaving?"

"Nothing, so long as you don't come back. It's a crime against Malacath, though, and that must be paid for with blood."

"Does that mean death?" His voice shook just a little.

"Maybe. That's where the trouble is. Might take my head, might just cut me a little. Might not do a thing. But I have committed a crime against the tribe, against the chief and against Malacath, so my chances aren't looking great."

"Who decides the punishment?"

"I guess the chief has final say."

"Is he a reasonable person?"

"Not usually, but he has his moments. Maybe age has mellowed him." She breathed in deeply. "Might help that he's my father."

Ondolemar choked. Wine dribbled down his chin. "Ghorza… you're a princess."

"Ha! Not really. All women in the tribe are either the chief's wife or his daughter. Only the chief may marry and have children, so being part of the tribe and being in the chief's family is really one and the same. Makes us stronger that way."

"And I'm guessing there's a reason we can't stay with Lord Kolskeggr."

"There is a very strong alliance between Dushnik Yal and Reachwind Eyrie, and to harbour me would be to risk the alliance. It is not work risking. He was the one who helped us escape, and I can only imagine the shit that caused."

"You could run," he offered.

"If I go into the wilderness I will probably die. If I return to Markarth I will probably die. May as well die here, paying for my crimes." The tear finally fell, though Ondolemar pretended not to see it. Her eyes were red, and the lip around her tusks quivered.

His own bottom lip began to tremble. "What you've done here… risked your own life for theirs. It's something from the songs."

"I doubt any bard in the courts of Alinor will sing about me, but I did what needed to be done."

"I am so grateful, Ghorza. I know you didn't do it for me, but here I am safe and sound anyway thanks to you. If there is anything I can do to make this easier…"

"Stay here with me. Make sure I don't fall asleep and drown in the bath." She closed her eyes once more. "And make sure the boys miss me when I'm gone."

Ondolemar forced a weak laugh. This strange Orc had forced him to feel something, and he wasn't entirely comfortable with that, but he stayed. Ghorza was content to ignore him, and he was happy to sit with his own thoughts. Sacrifice was something new to him, and he resigned himself to getting drunk enough to sleep.

* * *

"Burn the dead. Their corpses will only attract more," said Staubin without emotion. It was a massacre. All but two guards dead, and not a single worker left alive. Most of the supplies gone. Burnt and mutilated bodies littered the walkway and the tower, and a brief peek over the edge showed just as many in the water. Here and there, the body of a monster lay. Staubin stooped down to study a vile, twisted little face. Lines creased vertically across pale grey, flaky skin. Sores and cuts spread away from bleeding lips and gaping nostrils that formed caverns into its head. Oozing, bloody mounds of pink flesh sat where eyes should be, and chipped pointed ears stuck out from its bald head. "The Falmer will be back. We should have been more prepared."

"We can't stay here," said Erj, casting his eyes around for more of the monsters.

"Gather what you can. We make our way deeper into Nchuand-Zel in half an hour. To think all that protected Markarth from these wretches was that damned spider."

"Staubin, we're not gonna make it. We have nothing left," said Krag.

"Nonsense. We have food to last us a few days plus the trip back to the surface. We have our magic to defend us. Nothing can go wrong."

"Oh, fuck you!" shouted Erj so loud that it bounced off the cavern walls. "I hope you fucking die down here. Every single decision you've made has led to disaster. You're no leader, you're a soulless husk of a man. I won't follow you any longer, you piece of shit." Spittle flew from his mouth. Staubin remained motionless.

"Krag, come with me," said Erj, grabbing his arm. "As soon as I find something worth selling I'm leaving. And I'm not taking you with me," he spat back at Staubin.

The two mages hurried straight along the walkway towards a far door they had yet to open.

Stromm approached Staubin's side. "They won't last a day."

"Not my concern. We'll head back to that tree. I want to give it another look before we move on." In the distance, strange chattering echoed around the chamber. "And we're going now."

* * *

Jarl Igmund decided to spend his evening alone for once. Well, alone save for his mutt. His cavernous quarters were quiet and uncharacteristically warm. It seemed his servants had finally got used to his mood and planned to stoke the fire accordingly. He was grateful. He chose to sit in the overstuffed chair in front of leaping flames, one hand patting the dog's head and the other clutching a map of the city that was decorated with small green and red dots and details. He sighed and threw the map onto the side table. His dog whined and looked up at him with sad brown eyes, and Jarl Igmund ruffled his ears and gave him a kiss.

The door opened. "My Jarl, Mother Hamal insists she must see you." Faleen always knew how to ruin a moment.

"Let her in." He eased himself out of his chair and pulled a second one closer to the fire. Hastily, he shoved all the charts and maps off the table and kicked them under his chair, replacing them with brandy and two squat tumblers. A tightening of his causal green robe and a final feel of his cropped hair to make sure all was in place. He finished it off with a smile as Mother Hamal glided down the steps. Her simple orange robe clung to her surprisingly fit frame, and as he watched her, Jarl Igmund couldn't help but conclude she was beautiful. Many years were clearly behind her, and while her hair was grey it was long and luscious and bounced in curls tucked behind her ears. Her pale face creased at the corners of her mouth and eyes, and thin lines streaked across her forehead, but the features themselves were petite and pretty. Small rose lips, a tiny upturned nose and wide glimmering green eyes. She looked exactly as one would expect the Mother of the Temple of the Goddess of Beauty to look.

"Mother, you look well."

"As do you, my child. May I sit?" A single porcelain hand gestured to the vacant yellow chair.

"Of course." Jarl Igmund felt nervous.

"Child, I come here to discuss the events at the Temple today." She did not ask permission to pour herself a glass of brandy. Jarl Igmund opened his mouth, but she held up a finger to stop him. "I understand why you needed to try and stop me from executing that heretic, but you must know that it had to be done. The people saw Dibella's Temple desecrated and needed to know that order was restored."

"Order can be restored through the courts."

"You did not see it. The crowds in the market and along the stairs, silent and fearful as the screams of the dying span down from the Temple. The people are on edge, and fear is seeping into the city. If they do not feel safe, then they will do what they can to. If they don't think their jarl can keep them safe, then they will find a new one. I did this for you, child, that you may hold on for a few more days." Her voice lilted like a song, and she took a slow, shallow sip of her drink, her legs gently folded.

"A few more days? What do you think will happen then?" His brow creased, and his eyes pierced into hers.

"You will launch a daring and dramatic attempt to wrest this city from your enemies and stake your claim as King of the Reach." She smiled.

"You're mad."

"I am right. You cannot hide anything from me." She got up and approached the fire. "Do you know why my foremothers established the Temple here in Markarth? We could have had the charming birch forests of the Rift or the rolling golden plains of Whiterun, or we could have forsaken Skyrim altogether and settled in some dazzling glade or crystal palace in High Rock or Cyrodiil. But no, we chose Markarth because she needed us most. Who benefits from Dibella's light more than the fractured, fearful people of a city made of nothing but dull grey stone that does nought but belch black smoke?" She placed her drink on the mantle and turned to Jarl Igmund. In a few graceful steps she was on her knees in front of him, his hands clasped in her. "There are deeper and darker plots in Markarth than you can imagine, plots that you will soon uncover on this path you have forged. What comes of them are up to you, whether you choose peace or violence, but either way Markarth will heal for having her sins cleansed in the light." She rose and looked down on him. His mouth open and his eyes wide. She cupped his cheeks and lovingly kissed his forehead. "My child, walk with love, and think of Dibella when faced with the choices ahead."

He did not utter a word as she walked away from him, her hips swaying with every step. She reached the top of the step and turned her head.

"Oh, I nearly forgot."

She clapped her hands and two men walked in the room, clad in nothing but their loincloths. One was as tall as Jarl Igmund, blonde and muscled with a clean face and smooth body, his hair held back in a knot. His face exploded into a dazzling white smile when he saw Jarl Igmund. The other was half a foot taller and twice as heavy with bulging muscles dusted in black hair. His pecs bounced with every step, and he made a show to tense his arms so that enormous muscles popped. Long stubble grazed his cut jaw, and thick black curls swirled from his head.

"A gift from the Temple, an apology for any offense I may have caused on the balcony earlier with my…insolence. Do enjoy them both." She closed the door behind her.


End file.
